The Other Foot
by Betz88
Summary: Wilson's third marriage is crumbling. Sick at heart, he heads to work in the fog. The resulting accident is disastrous and Wilson wakes up crippled for life. Now he knows how House has felt for years. Will House be there for him?
1. Chapter 1

"THE OTHER FOOT"

Betz88

Chapter 1

"For Better or Worse"

He left the house and slammed the door behind him, anger spiking. This was so senseless. They had started out two years ago, newly married and so in love. How could it have taken a left turn so fast? They had honeymooned in Hawaii, then flown back to the mainland and happily squandered another glorious week in San Francisco, spending most of that time in their rented hotel room. And now it had come to this: bitter words, dark accusations and Julie throwing things; hard and blunt things, as he retreated out the back door and hurried to the garage.

He did not take the expensive Toyota Avalon, but let it stand where they'd parked it when they returned home from dinner two hours before. Instead, he fired up the beautiful old F-150 that he and his friends had restored years ago. He backed out of the garage and hit the gas, squealing the tires around the corner of the driveway and onto the blacktop. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do once he got there, but James Wilson, M. D., could not bear the thought of more screaming and shouting; hateful and angry words that only confirmed another marriage getting ready to crash and burn.

James turned left from Ridge Road and headed south on Route 206 toward Princeton. If nothing else, Gregory House had a comfortable leather couch in his living room, and he could always stay there. He sighed raggedly, let up a little on the gas and consciously separated his fingers away from the death grip he'd had on the steering wheel.

It seemed almost ironic that he was heading instinctively for the very place whose occupant had been the subject of his and Julie's latest quarrel. "What does that foul-mouthed son of a bitch have on you, Jimmy?" She'd asked for the thousandth time. "What's he going to do to you? Turn you in for robbing a bank? Stealing military secrets? Committing a murder? Every time he yells, you drop everything and run. I don't get it. You take off and you're gone for hours, and that's on top of all the hours you already spend with him at your job. Don't you want this marriage to work, Jimmy? I love you, but I'm tired of living my life all alone in an empty house while you're with that skinny, crippled jerk!"

James knew she had a point. Hell, she had lots of points, good ones. There were too many, in fact, for him to try to make her understand that Gregg House wasn't just another jerk. She'd known they were best friends the day she'd met them, because he and House had been together that night at Appleby's. Gregg was on crutches that week from a nagging injury to his bad leg, and they'd gone to the restaurant for dinner just to get House out of his apartment. Besides, where would he usually be found, after all, than at Gregg's side?

Julie had tripped on one of House's crutches that stuck out a bit from his side of the booth and she was half angry until she discovered that Gregg was lame and unable to walk or even tolerate a shoe because his foot was swollen. She'd apologized profusely and ended up sitting with them and getting into a heated discussion of Eagles versus Steelers. They'd left together later and stopped at Murphy's Tavern for drinks and further conversation.

About ten o'clock Wilson noticed that Gregg's head was falling backward between his shoulders further and further, a sure sign that he was hurting. Then he saw that the man's lower lip was actually bleeding from biting down on it to keep from vocalizing his pain. James cursed himself for twelve kinds of a fool and quickly found an excuse to get Gregg out of there. He knew Julie didn't understand and he refused to explain it to her in front of his friend. They dropped her at her car after exchanging phone numbers, and he drove Gregg home. That night he'd stayed over at the luxury apartment on East Side Drive, holding House steady within his strong embrace while Gregg went through leg spasms and waves of searing pain. At daybreak, he finally fell into a fitful sleep, but the only parts of James that went to sleep were his cramped shoulders and slumped back. He never loosened his embrace though, knowing that Gregg needed, more than anything else, the knowledge that someone was there and that someone cared.

That was the first time Julie became aware of their affinity for one another, but then it had all turned sour and quickly became a challenge to her, and perhaps a threat. It got worse. Gregg's innate sarcasm and rude sense of humor had gotten turned on her as often as not, and she didn't appreciate it. His caustic remarks always went in one of Wilson's ears and out the other because he was used to it. He knew Gregg gleefully gauged everyone's reactions to his outrageous statements, but Julie's skin wasn't as thick as her husband's. She often took his snide teasing as deliberate ridicule. It all came to a head when Gregg first saw her in a bikini and had the nerve to call her "turkey legs". To him it was just another insult-joke, but to Julie it spelled the end to anything they might have had in the way of friendship. Even after Gregg offered a half-assed apology, she turned her back on him completely. One evening, she finally told James: "I wish they would just cut his fucking leg off and stuff it in his mouth; save everyone else a lot of hassle!" That was the night of their first screaming battle. Jim had left the house in a huff and spent the night at Gregg's place. It was the first, but it certainly would not be the last.

And so here he was, voluntarily without a bed for the night, barreling down Route 206 on his way toward Princeton, his destination obvious, his intention to wake Gregg House if he was asleep, which he doubted. Gregg would allow him entry while standing to one side with his face full of unsympathetic derision and tell him: "… your chambers awaiteth, Sir Galahad!" or some-such nastiness. They would have a glass of Scotch, smoke a smelly stogie and repair to their separate sleeping quarters with Gregg's back radiating an attitude of: "I told you so!" They would get up in the morning, eat something questionable from Gregg's refrigerator and ride to work together after stopping at the closest fast-food for a cup of their torpedo-proof coffee. They began to tick these scenarios off on their fingers like skirmishes in an ongoing battle.

There was indeed a light on in Apartment Eight at the Gateway Complex just as James had known there would be. He drove into the underground garage and parked his F-150 in the parking space next to Gregg's decadently huge brand-new burgundy hand-controlled special-lift GMC Envoy. Wilson entered the elevator right next to the Envoy's "handicap" stall and rode up to the fourth floor. He pressed a finger on the buzzer.

"It's open … c'mon in, Wilson!" Called the deep voice from somewhere inside.

Wilson turned the knob and walked in. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Who else raids my inner sanctum at 11:30 at night?"

"Okay, true, but how come you're unlocked?"

"Just too damn lazy to get up and flip the latch," came the answer. "You looking for lodgings, stranger?"

"Uh huh." Wilson walked closer to the big leather lounge chair where House slouched with his back turned. The TV was tuned to FOX News, its volume muted. The stereo was low, something classical that James didn't recognize. House had an open magazine in his lap, a half glass of Scotch in his right hand and the vial of Vicodin by his left elbow.

Something felt tilted. Whacked. Off kilter.

Wilson held his breath for a moment, considering. He slid out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, moving across to where House sat. Gregg was in tee shirt and underwear, his scarred leg resting on one of the pillows from his bed. He did not look up even as James approached and reached out to lay a palm in his friend's shoulder.

"Wilson … don't!"

Wilson withdrew his hand in alarm. _Uh oh … what the hell did I walk into this time?_ He knelt at House's side. "What's going on, House? What's wrong? Talk to me!"

There was a grunt of pained laughter. "I have to piss like a race horse, and the damned leg is in revolt. Think you could give me a hand up?"

"Sure. Always. What'd you do to yourself this time?"

"Nothing! Swear to God! Sat too long, I guess. Fell asleep awhile … woke up … went to get up and couldn't. Dropped the freaking cane and now I can't move without the pain going through the roof!" He took a deep breath, whistled it out between clenched teeth. "Julie kick your sorry ass out again?"

The abrupt change of subject made Wilson chuckle in spite of himself. For the thousandth time he wondered if House possessed the ability to read his mind and predict when the next marital insurrection would take place. "Yeah, I guess I'm heading down the Yellow Brick Road for the third time. Not like I didn't see it coming …"

The painful laughter came back to him again. "Y'know, Wilson, if you stand on the same street corner and you keep getting run over by the same bus every time, most people would get the idea to move to another fuckin' street corner!" Gregg turned his head to the side and slowly looked up into Wilson's face. His eyes were red-rimmed and brimming, and his scruffy cheeks were tear-streaked.

"Aww … House!" James reached out again to cup House's tense face in his palm and gently wiped at some of the wetness with his thumb. He met no resistance this time. "What in the hell am I going to do with you?"

"Shoot me?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

5


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"And the Music Goes 'Round and 'Round'"

Wilson stirred restlessly on the big leather couch and stared at the shadows on the walls created by diffused lighting from outside and the soft glow from the small lamp Gregg always kept on the piano. Usually he slept well at House's apartment, but the combination of his argument with Julie and the lousy condition in which he'd found his friend, had his nerves frayed raw, and his worry for Gregg's up-and-down health at an all-time peak. It was almost three in the morning and Wilson felt as though his eyeballs had been rolled in sand. What if he hadn't happened by tonight?

Only within the trusted privacy of Wilson's company did House's normal propensity for bitter anger and sarcasm diminish to any extent, and it was only Wilson he would allow to touch his crippled leg, or for that matter, come anywhere near it. Tonight had been a prime example.

"I might kick your ass, but I think it's a little early to shoot you …" had been his quiet answer to Gregg's suggestion, which still ricocheted around inside his head. Earlier, when James had eased his friend's back into a more upright position, carefully lifted his bum leg and placed it off the stool and onto the floor, then picked up the cane and handed it over, House had been able to get to the bathroom without too much extra effort. When Gregg dragged himself out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, he'd been unusually quiet as he eased onto the edge of the bed. James had been waiting there for him and helped him ease his tired body into a comfortable position, then placed a pillow beneath his knee so he could get some sleep. Wilson offered him a Vicodin from the vial in the living room, and he'd swallowed it dry. He'd seemed almost embarrassed by the feeble levels to which his disability had lowered him tonight, and when Wilson rose and made to turn out the overhead light, a raspy "Thank you," caught up with him in the open doorway.

James Wilson turned around in the darkness and answered calmly. "That's what friends are for, House. Good night."

The following morning it was as though last night's scene had never happened. House did not mention it so neither did Wilson. They breakfasted on bitter instant coffee with no milk or sugar because House was out of both. They had week-old English muffins with pats of pilfered restaurant butter and no jelly because House was out of that also. They went to work in House's big Envoy, which he'd insisted they take. Proudly he showed off the expensive lift which had been specially installed on the driver's side, and which he could step onto, press a remote to lift him parallel to the running board, and then simply slide onto the seat. No strain on the bum leg.

"Cool wheels, huh?"

Wilson shook his head, rolled his eyes and patiently observed: "The term 'Sherman Tank' comes to mind more accurately …"

They stopped at the usual fast food and ordered large cups of the torpedo-proof coffee and a couple of large Danish. "Ahhh …" House said as he pulled back into the street, "Health food. Yummy!"

Wilson pulled a wry face and glared at his friend from the corners of his eyes. "Whatever you say, fearless leader."

It was as close as they came to a conversation the rest of the way to the hospital.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Wilson went home that night. And the next. And the next.

Apparently, House believed, Wilson had called home and persuaded Julie that they should make an honest effort to patch things up. All that week, the atmosphere remained quiet. The two men saw little of one another outside of professional consultation since Gregg was busy with the dreaded clinic duty, finally making a half-hearted effort to catch up on the obligation that reached all the way back to the time of his crippling infarction. At the same time he avoided a confrontation with Dr. Cuddy, and for that matter, anyone else. His "snark" mode seemed to be turned on "high".

By Friday evening, Gregg began to feel a vague malaise and a general achy feeling that radiated through his entire body. His leg felt unusually stiff and his head hurt like he'd been pole-axed.

By the time the weekend began, the change in his breathing patterns told him he was coming down with something he knew would a total pain in the ass to try to get rid of.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

10


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"The Door Into Blackness"

For his part, James Wilson was walking on eggs with his wife. As much as he feared the thought of another marriage hitting the skids, his mind was constantly plagued with the nagging possibility that this fear had nothing to do with his love for Julie. What it did have to do with, however, worried him and mocked him with vague innuendos concerning his single-minded devotion to the welfare of Gregory House. His inbred macho pride warned him that if he let this third marriage slip through his fingers and chalked up another bust as a husband, there were serious questions about the nature of his masculinity. Every time he went running back to his best friend for solace concerning his failures, his assumed cowardice of his own actions spoke volumes about his ability to function as a man. His stern Jewish upbringing suggested that he was flawed, tainted and stained with a multitude of unspeakable defects, and so he crawled back to Julie, promising himself that from now on he would let Gregg House tend to his own existence and he would tend to his.

That resolution lasted twenty four hours, give or take. When the phone rang at six o'clock Monday morning, a half hour before their normal wake-up time, James rolled over with a sleepy yawn and picked it up on the third ring.

"Unhh … yeah?"

Gregg's voice on the line was thick and hoarse and nasal, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was ill. "Wilson … I'm sorry … dizzy … I can't …" The sentence trailed off into silence, along with the thump of the phone hitting the floor.

Alarmed, James turned on the bedside lamp and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, fully awake. Beside him, Julie roused onto an elbow and squinted at him. "Who is it, honey?"

He held up a hand to silence her. "House? House? Answer me! Are you there? Are you all right? _House_!"

The moment she heard the name of the caller, Julie flounced out of bed with an exaggerated sigh and headed for the bathroom. "Oh God! Now he's getting us out of bed in the middle of the damn night!"

"It's not the middle of the night!" James snapped, immediately irritated. Gregg was in trouble and she was already bitching. He threw back the covers, grabbing for shirt and pants, the discarded phone with the line still open, tossed somewhere among the rumpled sheets. He pulled on his clothing and stepped into his shoes barefooted, tense with the need to hurry. "Will you please listen to me?"

She poked her head around the doorframe and glared at him. "Listen to what, for God's sake? What's any different now from the last time that jerk cried 'wolf'? Go on! Get out of here and go tend to him! The idiot probably has a third-degree hangnail!"

"Dammit, Julie!" Wilson retorted hotly. "He's sick! I think he passed out. He dropped the phone. You know House's health is a mess. It could be something serious, and I have to go!"

"Yeah," she said finally, most of the initial fight already drained out of her. It was an old argument and getting older by every second that stretched between them. "I know. He bleeds … you run. I should have known from the beginning. Whatever it is with you two, I stepped right in the middle where I don't belong. It couldn't be any plainer, really. You don't need a wife, Jimmy … you need Gregg House. And I can't fight that."

"Julie! Please!" His own anger was cooling. "It doesn't have to be this way. I'm a doctor and you knew about the obligations when you married me. Please don't let it end like this!"

"I'm sorry, Jim. I've given it my best shot. I know all about Gregg's condition and you're right; I've always known about it. Sometimes I wish I'd met him before he got to be such a son of a bitch. Things might be different if I had. But I can't compete with a cripple who's always in pain, and who seems to bring out the savior complex in you. It's what you are, for God's sake!"

James paused a moment, then strode to her and took her into his arms. "Please reconsider, Julie. We can talk tonight. I can't just ignore him when he's in trouble. He's always there for me, even though you can't see it, and I owe him."

She was crying now, and he ran his fingers through her sleep-tangled blonde hair, kissing her tenderly at the nape of her neck. Julie shook her head and pulled away from him, her tear-streaked face a study in regret. "Our time is up, Jimmy," she said. "We had a good ride for a little while … but it's over."

"Julie! Please … no!"

She placed her fingertips across his lips, shushing him. "I'll have all my belongings out of here by the time you're home tonight, and I'll drop by Ben's office sometime tomorrow to start the divorce papers. You can go in whenever you want and sign them." She pushed away from him, went back into the bathroom and paused behind the closing door. "For your sake, I hope he's okay. It would kill you if ever he's not!" It was the kindest thing she'd ever said where House was concerned. "Get out of here, Jim! He needs you!"

She was crying again, but it was muffled by the closed door. James felt helpless. He sighed raggedly, feeling his eyes begin to fill. He turned to leave, torn once more with indecision. But she was right. Again. House needed him and he needed House. There was a hollow feeling growing in his chest.

Downstairs he removed the keys to the Toyota Avalon from his ring and left them on the kitchen table where she would find them. When he stepped outside to go to the garage for his pickup truck, he was greeted with misty rain and a pea-soup fog. It was going to be a long ride to town and he hoped Gregg would be all right until he got there.

As Wilson clicked the remote for the garage door and stood watching it rise, his problems with Julie retreated into the background and his thoughts returned to Gregory House, once again refocused and involved. Gregg's voice on the phone had been thick and hoarse and fully congested. Head cold? Chest cold? Something worse? Pneumonia came to mind. His immune system was a little out of whack from all his bouts with infection over the intervening years since he'd been hurt, and whatever was bothering him enough to make him place an early morning call, had to be more than just the inconvenience of some "bug".

James backed the F-150 out of the garage and turned down Ridge Road toward Princeton. The fog was undeniably thick, visibility limited. Training his vision automatically on the yellow line down the middle and the white lines at the sides of the road, he set out cautiously. The dashboard clock read 6:55 a.m.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregory House sat in his lounge chair, still in the same briefs and tee shirt from the night before. He'd gotten little sleep, thanks to his pounding head and the nagging pain deep in his leg, which this morning seemed to center in his knee, causing it to stiffen into an unyielding log somewhat larger than a baseball bat. It had become progressively more difficult to breathe, lying flat on the bed, so he'd hop-stepped painfully to the living room about 6:30 a.m. There was a box of Kleenex balanced on his sound leg and beside him on the floor the wastebasket was filled to overflowing with balled-up tissues. He did not have the wherewithal it would take to get up and empty it. His head felt like a kettle drum in a symphony, his eyes watered like a leaky faucet, and when he'd heaved himself out of bed earlier, a bout of vertigo threatened to toss him on his ass. The fact that the receiver of his telephone still laid on the floor of the bedroom next to his cane told him that he might have tried to call someone. Wilson? He couldn't remember if he had or not, and that fact alone nagged him with a new worry. Was he beginning to lose it? That thought had occurred to him before, but the lapses always seemed to happen at home when his mind was unoccupied, under-stimulated or just too damned tired to engage itself in anything but self-pity and self-loathing and holding his physical pain at bay. He slugged a Vicodin and groaned out loud. No one was there to hear him giving vent to his misery anyway. Screw it!

It was nearly 6:45 a.m. He should be up and in the shower by now, but it didn't seem worth the effort, and if he attempted to go in to work stiff-legged, Wilson would be on him like stink on shit. More attention to his disability he didn't need. He plucked a couple of Kleenex from the box and blew his nose loudly. Crumpled it, threw it in the direction of the wastebasket. It missed, landed on the floor. Idly he let his gaze traverse the room. There was mess everywhere. Food containers, flatware, coffee cups and empty beer cans strewed about. Discarded clothing from last Friday was still on the floor in front of the couch where he'd collapsed after work, feeling too rotten to go any further. His Nike Shox lay over by the front door right where he'd kicked them off when he came in. He wondered idly if he would be able to bend over far enough to slip them on this morning, or whether it was worth the pain to even try. He really should call off sick from work. But if he did, Wilson would be on his doorstep within the hour after arriving at the hospital to find that House wasn't holed up in his office with his plastic yo-yo or already prowling the halls, searching for people to piss off. If he didn't show up, the Ducklings would be beating down doors, asking stupid questions … Where was he? … Why wasn't he there? … Had he injured himself? Drunk? Hung over? Whatever. And Cuddy. For all her bluster and half-implied threats, he was certain she still conceded to his eccentricities as often as her professional responsibilities allowed. He couldn't exactly call her a friend, but at least she understood.

It was becoming a case of damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't. House blew his nose again, dropped the Kleenex box to the floor and heaved himself clumsily out of the chair. He hopped a few times, using the toes of his right foot as a rudder to find a precarious balance, and tested his weight on the leg. Not as bad as he'd thought it would be. He took a tentative step and the knee locked tight, but it held enough of his weight to get him back in the bedroom where he could retrieve his cane. Getting dressed would be a pain in the ass; nothing new, but a little worse today. He began the task of getting ready for work, even though he didn't want to, even though his head hurt with a vengeance and he could feel every antibody he still possessed valiantly trying to fight off whatever was causing the dizziness.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

James Wilson drove slowly through the swirling fog and mist that surrounded him, staring obliquely ahead, leaving off the gas when he saw approaching headlights funnel through the pea soup. It was 7:05 and school busses were running now, yellow fog lights piercing the gloom, their red line-lights glowing atop reflecting windshields, coruscating brake lights and caution lights glowing red and amber. Traffic had picked up the last few minutes. The world did not stand still just to accommodate lousy weather, and he needed to keep with the flow pattern. Wilson switched the radio to NPR just to combat the silence broken only by the truck's engine and the slap of the wipers and the buzz of the defroster. Everything terrible and exciting was happening in the world this morning. The President was still despised by many and canonized by few, and further religious upheaval was tearing the heart out of the African continent. He sighed. Some things never changed. In a few minutes the classical music station returned to playing classical music. The symphony spoke to him and he let his tense body relax by degrees.

Daylight was visible now, the heaviest mists lifting from the roadbed a fraction. James could see a little further ahead and he went down harder on the gas pedal. He had turned onto Route 206 by now, heading south. Just a few more miles and he would hit the edge of town and shortly arrive at Gregg's place.

Wilson shifted his line of sight a little to the left as an unfamiliar source of bright light drifted slowly toward him at a strange angle from the fog. Too late, he saw it was a school bus full of kids, skidding out of control and heading straight for the pickup's left front fender. His reflexes responded automatically. He swerved to the right, then brought the steering wheel hard about in the opposite direction, grabbing the four-wheel-drive lever in a death grip with his right hand. You weren't supposed to do it that way! The truck needed to be stopped for this model to go into four-wheel-drive, but this was no ordinary situation. The big transaxle ground overtop its gear teeth, fighting him as it whined in high-pitch protest; then it caught and threw him forward against the steering wheel. He floored it and the truck's rear end swung around in a skidding arc as the tires dug in and spun on the asphalt. Then he was hitting the edge of the berm with the big back tires, digging in once again and throwing mud, grass and stones behind him in a hailstorm of earthen debris. To his left the school bus swept past inches from his back end and skidded behind him, digging deep furrows into a freshly plowed field. Wilson floored the accelerator one last time, narrowly avoiding an upset, which would have sent him careening against the restraints of the seat belt and taking out his collarbone like a stick of dry tinder. The truck's four tires dug in one last time and suddenly he was slamming upright again. He pulled the wheel back to the right, compensating for the drift and bounced out of the skid, back into the middle of the highway.

Too late, his headlights reflected off something huge and black dead ahead of him, coming at him too fast to avoid. Wilson had nowhere to go, and it was too late for his overloaded senses to do any further high-adrenaline compensating. Looming over him on a collision course was a big International garbage compactor, its heavy steel stabilizer bar anchored across the front of the grille like a battering ram. His brain registered horror on the faces of the two men in the big truck, then a millennium-like shudder struck the F-150 head on.

It was as though he'd hit a brick wall at 100 MPH. The pickup's one remaining headlight pointed toward the clearing sky.

The last thing Wilson remembered before things went black, was looking down in puzzlement at his legs and wondering how in hell his pickup's engine could possibly have ended up in his lap and its steering wheel stuck through the roof.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Denial"

Gregory House hefted himself into the Envoy and drove carefully to work through the lifting fog and light misty rain. He made sure he arrived early enough to go in ahead of not only his immediate staff, but Cuddy as well. His right knee refused to bend, and he had no intention of being seen moving through the corridors like a wounded tin soldier. His head still pounded and his nose was still running.

His immediate concern, after unlocking his office door, was to grab a fresh box of Kleenex and cart it over to his table. He flipped on his PC, plopped down his brief case, removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He blew his nose and popped a Vicodin. After that, he laboriously fished his black leather stool with the bed pillow on top from under the table, hung the cane over the jacket and eased into his chair, suppressing the twinge of pain the movement induced.

He was lightheaded again for a few moments, but then it passed. He grasped his right pants leg and lifted the angry limb onto the pillow he'd liberated from the ObGyn lounge on Friday, pausing momentarily to press the warmth of his palm against the outside of the knee. It helped a little, but he couldn't sit that way all day. Gingerly he rolled the stool back beneath the table, hoping no one would notice.

Presently he turned to his computer and pulled up threads of research material for a paper he'd started the week before. He knew if he stayed here and worked with some modicum of concentration on this project, he could probably get away with staying at the computer all day. The "Ducklings", as Wilson called them, would not know the difference because all of them were aware he had the paper in the works. Cuddy would present no problem either if she saw that he was at least working at something!

Wilson, on the other hand, could prove to be the one fly in the ointment. Those sharp eyes would spot the pillow in an instant. He would probably ask conciliatory questions which were really none of his business, then rat House out within a few minutes if House didn't play his cards very close to his chest. House allowed himself a moment of grim humor, quite prepared to make a betting contest out of it just to keep Wilson's big mouth shut. Unconsciously his hand reached back down until his palm was cupping his kneecap, seeking to ease the throb that pulsed an angry counterpoint to the ongoing misery of the nerve damage in his thigh.

_Jesus! What next?_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

A short time later, House was conscious of a wail of sirens from the street below his window. The first was joined by another, deeper in pitch, that could be a fire engine. Some idiot piled up in the fog, no doubt. The racket quickly diminished toward the north of the city, and House gave it no further thought. He returned his concentration to his research project and his hand crept back in a further attempt to silence the waspy anger in his knee.

Twenty minutes later he was still there, leafing through scientific printouts one at a time, and ready to begin the second phase of the paper he was working on. His right hand still rubbed intermittently at the side of his leg, but he was not even aware of it, so fiercely had he delved into the research details.

He was not aware of anything outside himself until the fine hairs at the back of his neck suddenly told him that he was no longer alone. He looked up, fully expecting to see Wilson standing there, and at the same time switching his mindset to a wager with himself about how long it would take him to gross Wilson out.

Lisa Cuddy stood frozen a few feet from his desk, her face chalk-white, dark eyes stricken. House glanced at her and frowned.

_What the hell?_

Cuddy took a step closer and stopped. She addressed him formally, as usual. "Dr. House?"

There was an alarmed edge to her voice that he'd never heard before in all the years he'd known her. The hairs at the back of his neck rose to attention and saluted. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 8:30 a.m.

His blood froze in his veins. Why? She was trying to tell him something and didn't know how to begin. "Dr. House, you need to come with me." She lifted a slender white hand, beckoning, and there was a sense of urgency in it.

Gregg straightened in his chair and pulled back, tilting his head. He felt a flash of cold. Something was wrong. Someone in trouble? Who? A patient crisis? Boring! One of the Ducklings? Not possible … they'd been buzzing in and out ever since he'd arrived. He hadn't seen hide or hair of Wilson though, and his little irritating quizzes were long overdue.

_Wilson?_

It hit him like a sledgehammer. His face and brain closed down, leaving him in a lull of temporary blankness. His body waited for the blow it knew was coming.

_DENIAL!_

Cuddy crossed to his side with a critical eye to his leg. "I have some disturbing news. It's about Dr. Wilson. He's been in an accident. They had to extract him from his truck with the Jaws of Life, and they're bringing him into the ER now. Please walk with me. We have to get over there."

Dumbly, he reached for his cane and stood up with an awkward thrust. His knee locked painfully, throwing him off balance for a moment, and he stumbled.

"Ahhh …"

Cuddy made a grab for his elbow and steadied him until he got his good leg under him, and then slowly backed away, resisting further assistance. "Are you able to walk?" She asked.

He nodded. His head pounded and he reeled drunkenly for a moment. His legs had turned to lead, his fear flashing alarms to his adrenal system. "Yeah. Give me a second."

"You sound terrible! She said.

"I _feel_ terrible!" He replied. "Let's go!"

Cuddy adjusted her pace to House's difficult gait. He was ill, and his leg seemed very unstable. There were a hundred questions she wished she could ask him, but knew she couldn't. Not now.

They quickened their pace to the elevator as his movements gradually strengthened.

She decided it was more his iron will than any improvement in his body mechanics.

Lisa pushed the button to descend and felt the moment of lightness as the motors took hold. The doors opened across from the Emergency Room and House gripped his cane and strode out of there, body gaining a rocking rhythm in its lameness that propelled him away from her with a vengeance.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

15


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I Think This Guy's A Doctor!"

The dump-lid stabilizer bar across the front of the big International was bent inward, its grille was caved all the way to the motor, its radiator compromised. Steam rose in a heavy cloud from beneath the buckled hood. The front of the tan pickup had disintegrated into the cavity beneath the bar, and there was very little left of what had once been its front end. It had hit nearly straight on, its driver wildly overcompensating for having just avoided killing forty kids on the school bus, which had blown a tire right in front of the garbage truck. The compactor's driver also had to swerve to keep from bashing the bus in the rear, and neither truck had anywhere to go to avoid a collision with the other.

Breathless and shaking from just having the fright of their lives and emerging with just a few scrapes and bruises, the two men in the International were unhurt, mainly due to the sheer mass of the vehicle they were in. Both doors of the truck were slightly buckled due to the initial impact, but when the men put their shoulders into them, they burst open and the occupants heaved down to land safely on the roadbed. Their immediate concern was for the courageous driver of the pickup, but they knew without a doubt that he or she had not fared nearly so well as they.

The scene of the accident was lining rapidly with cars and trucks, arriving from both directions. Some of their drivers were witnesses, some not. Many of these people came forth eagerly to offer help, and a few already had cell phones in their hands calling 911.

From the field, the school bus driver and all of her charges streamed from the stalled vehicle and straggled, with her frantic encouragement, toward the chaotic scene in the middle of the highway. None of them appeared to be injured. Merely shaken up and frightened out of their wits. Some of the bystanders moved toward them to offer assistance. None declined the attention.

Mat Savarik and Marty Polumbo hurried from their truck and rounded on the middle of the pickup, which they noted was not so much the middle anymore, but the front. Inside they could see the young male driver slumped in the crushed driver's seat, bloody and unconscious, his head lolled to the left and one hand hung up at shoulder height in the broken steering wheel, which was now deeply imbedded in the skewed roof that lay peeled back like the lid of a tin can. The driver's side door was inaccessible, crumpled in the middle and deeply twisted into the bottom of the doorframe. The men nodded grimly to one another, then hurried around back to check the door on the passenger side. If the driver didn't receive medical attention very soon, it was obvious that he would not need medics, but a coroner.

The passenger door was badly sprung, but it was on the side which had taken the least damage, and after a group of men at the scene put their muscles into it, it shrieked open to the point where they had a full view of the injured man. There were gasps and curses and indrawn breaths. Some of those present had to turn away from the carnage that lay before them. The truck's engine had penetrated the firewall and entered the cab, uprooting the dashboard and the base of the steering column. There was blood everywhere, and the driver's legs were crushed beneath the weight of the engine, the right thigh laid open, shoe torn away from his bare foot, pant leg shredded, bones obviously broken and twisted across the transmission hump which was also dislodged and buckled upward from the floor.

Monty and Matt had seen a lot of carnage during their years on the county's roads, and they had come upon plenty of roadside accidents, but nothing like this. Monty climbed across the bent running board and pulled himself into the cab undaunted, looking for some way to aid the driver before he bled to death. He would have turned the ignition off to prevent sparking, but the column was imbedded in the dash. Instead, he disentangled the young man's arm from the steering wheel and lowered it to his side, then hoisted his own slender body upward and across the twisted metal to check the driver's left side. The man's left leg was barely visible, buried somewhere beneath the engine block, probably broken in any number of places, perhaps even amputated beneath the crush of industrial steel, rubber and sharp glass and metal edges.

"I need blankets!" Monty called toward the group of people clustered about the broken door. "Jackets, shirts, anything! I can't even get to his other leg, but I've got to stop the bleeding, or this guy's history!"

There was a rustle from the group behind him as people hurried to do his bidding. Then the blankets and jackets and sweaters and shirts began to appear from outstretched hands thrusting toward him as people tried to do anything within their power to help. Matt climbed into the truck as far as he could get and handed article after article across to Monty, who unfolded them, crammed them around the young driver's injured limbs to stop the bleeding as well as he could until professional help arrived. Beside him, Matt's eyes locked onto the staff-and-serpent emblem hanging from the truck's broken dashboard. He reached across to tap Monty on the shoulder. "Hey Bro," he said softly,

"I think this guy's a doctor!"

"Oh sweet Jesus!" Came Monty's only response as he continued to stuff blankets and articles of clothing between the driver's mutilated leg and the hot engine block.

In the background they could hear sirens approaching fast. Along the berm, official vehicles scrambled for purchase, half in the field, half on the road to avoid the crush of stalled traffic as they worked their way closer. Police cars with red bar lights flashing and bleating sirens set to manual, squawked a warning to clear a path as they began to rid the area of cars and people so the ambulances could get in. Behind them came the fire truck pumper, the EMT van and two wreckers, all of them flashing red lights and squeezing as close to the scene as they could manage. Gradually the crush eased and the wreckers were able to assume positions at opposite ends of the accident scene where they would be able to hook onto the damaged vehicles and attempt to pull them apart.

Troopers from the State Police barracks in Plainsboro directed oncoming traffic to other access roads, and stopped stragglers and gawkers from compromising the accident scene. Two local officers from Princeton moved among the onlookers, asking questions, talking to witnesses and getting a general idea of what had happened. They were getting an earful from everyone there, quickly learning how the young pickup driver had avoided the out-of-control school bus with the blown tire, and saved a group of children and their driver from serious injury in the process. Both policemen worked the crowd and directed traffic, waiting to speak with Monty and Matt, knowing they were still in the pickup's cab with its driver.

When the medics pulled up moments later, they found the badly injured driver of the truck shored up and supported on either side by two middle-aged sanitation workers, and deeply cocooned in donated clothing and blankets from the gathered crowd. They thanked both men profusely for their heroic actions and shook their heads in amazement at the innate goodness of all these strangers who were so often intolerant of each other at any other time. The gathering of so many concerned bystanders had probably been instrumental in saving the young man's life, if indeed it could be saved at all. They sincerely hoped it could.

As at every disaster, the sharks arrived to press microphones into everyone's faces and ask compromising questions of people who wanted them to just go away and mind their own business. To which one reporter caustically replied: "We _are_ minding our own business, buddy! This is what we _do_!" Overhead, media helicopters whop-whopped the air with their intrusive stereo thunder and beamed their powerful spotlights down onto the accident scene so their cameras could record every gory detail.

While the fire company's pumper hosed down and mopped up the accident scene, wreckers moved in closer, their crews hooking up massive chains and straps to the undercarriages of the International and what was left of the tan pickup's frame in the attempt to pull them apart and get to the imbedded engine of the F-150. It had to be removed from contact with the driver's body very soon so medics could treat him and get him back to Princeton's PPTHospital as quickly as possible. When the news leaked out that the handsome young driver might be a doctor at the same hospital, the news ricocheted through the crowd like wildfire.

"Who is he?"

"What's his name?"

"What kind of doctor is he?"

"Could he be _my_ doctor?"

When the two wreckers pulled the vehicles loose, the broken engine fell to the macadam, linked to its former mounts only by a few stretchable rubber hoses and a twisted copper fuel line. EMTs, police and wrecking crews were already working at the crumpled driver's door with the Jaws-of-Life extractor, trying to free James Wilson, Oncologist, from his bitter prison.

They got him loose at 8:05 a.m. and immediately transferred him to a gurney, still partially wrapped in bloody clothing and blankets. He was deeply unconscious, thankfully, for his pain would have been unendurable had he been awake. They stabilized the myriad of broken bones as best they could, and started IVs. They loaded him gently onto the ambulance and pulled away, accelerating to high speed with lights rotating and sirens blaring, toward the sanctuary and the professional medical skills at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Try as they might, no one could manage to get in touch with or notify Mrs. Julia Wilson, the young doctor's wife. She seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Press releases would shortly announce:

"James E. Wilson, local Oncologist

In Critical Condition

After head-on crash north of city.

Young doctor called 'a Hero' by many."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

19


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Waiting … Waiting … Waiting"

When the elevator stopped on the ground floor, Gregory House exploded out of it faster than was safe for him. Shouldering his way through the double doors across the corridor, he narrowly avoided mowing down an older couple on their way out of one of the waiting rooms. He grunted an apology and struggled on, ignoring everything and everyone in his path.

By the time he made it to the correct emergency cubicle and crashed literally into the edge of the observation window, his leg had begun to shake, and the agony clawed upward to his hip and all the way down to his foot. Around him in the busy hallway, shift personnel stared at his wild look with varying degrees of curiosity, pity and hostility. No one, however, bothered to approach him to inquire whether he was all right. His very body language kept them all at bay. He clenched his fists and bit down on his lip and turned a blind eye. By the time Cuddy caught up with him, he had rearranged his face into its normal scowl.

"That was a foolish thing to do, Dr. House."

He did not look at her. "Don't start with me!" He snarled without taking his eyes off the severely injured, naked and inert body on the gurney beyond the window. Wilson's legs had been straightened somewhat, but they were purple with bruising, red-tinged with open wounds, and dye-spotted from antiseptic solution. His left calf and thigh were crimson-spotted with second and third degree burns from being lodged against the hot engine block.

His left foot, no longer a foot at all, but something entirely different. Both legs were lumped with bone fractures pressing against whatever skin remained that was still unbroken. The swelling was off-putting, and even the physician part of Gregory House had to clench both eyes closed against the images. This was personal. This was his friend.

Cuddy did not challenge her colleague. They were both experiencing the nightmare and shock of initial denial, looking upon sweet-tempered James Wilson, horribly broken and perhaps about to lose his battle for life. House's preoccupation from now on would not be compromised. She backed off after one last admonition. "Do not, under any circumstances, go in there, Dr. House!" She warned. "You are too close to the situation."

"Don't preach to me, Dr. Cuddy!" He could have sliced through bone with the edge of steel in his voice. "Because when he regains consciousness … _if_ he ever does … you will see how closely I follow your orders."

He planted his weight evenly on both legs, placed his cane upon the ledge and propped himself on his hands in front of the observation port, prepared to wait out the emergency preparations.

Behind him, Cuddy could not begin to imagine how much that move had cost him. He would wait until they transferred Wilson to surgery, and he would stubbornly insist on following along. She could not stop him, nor would she try. There were some things into which one did not dare interfere, and this was one of them.

"Keep me posted, House … please." Slowly she turned away to go back to her office and complete the unpleasant task still undone. She must get in touch with Wilson's family. The call would be difficult indeed to make, but House's attention was no longer focused enough to process her request. He would never know she was gone. Or care.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

An hour later, an exhausted and ailing Gregg House was fast nearing the limits of his endurance. His body was threatening to fold beneath him. He was light-headed to the point of seeing spots before his eyes, and the pain in his leg had escalated. In his mad rush to the emergency room, he had neglected to grab his pain medication or the box of Kleenex from his desk. Yet he stood. Planted. It was all becoming mental: mind over matter. The physical world was fading quickly in the face of his determination.

Inside the cubicle, James Wilson was being prepped for surgery. Only a matter of time now before the gurney would come through the double door beside the observation window and head for the elevators, then upstairs to one of the operating theatres.

Wilson's battered body still lay nude, except for the sterile sheet draped across it from hip to hip. That area looked as though it had been the only one that had been spared. In spite of himself, House indulged in a momentary smirk of irony. Julie would be so happy!

Wilson's bruised features were nearly obscured beneath the oxygen mask held firmly in place by a solidly built black man whose precise corn rows were a dead giveaway above the surgical mask covering the lower part of his face. Billy Travis! Thank God he was there!

At the head of the gurney, three separate IVs and a unit of whole blood were doing their work by keeping James unconscious, holding his pain at bay, and replacing the life fluids he had lost in the accident. A team of physicians worked over him, concentrating on an area in the upper left portion of his abdomen. Spleen?

Another team swabbed the extensive wounds on his legs and feet, and applied sterile bandages around them. House could see two doctors with surgical needles closing and cauterizing wounds deep enough to still be seeping blood. Two crash carts stood at the ready near James' head, and two other carts full of bandages and other trauma supplies were pulled close to the areas where both medical teams worked.

They were getting ready to move him out to X-ray and MRI, probably also to Ultra-Sound. After that, surgery would be performed and something temporary would be implemented to stabilize his legs until the swelling abated. Because of the swelling it could be a week, perhaps longer, before Wilson's limbs could be entrusted to casts. Until then, James would be helpless. If he survived …

House could not afford to think about that, and so he turned his thoughts to simpler things.

It looked as though there was a fractured wrist. His right one. His hand lay at an odd angle. House knew Wilson was a southpaw, but the use of only one hand was never enough. Gregg was an expert in that area! All of this hinged, of course, on the optimistic view that James Wilson would emerge from this deadly encounter alive and mentally alert. He would also be in excruciating and inconceivable agony.

If he did not survive, House would have only the shadow of a life to return to, and he was not certain anymore if his job would be enough to give him further incentive to fight the good fight any longer. James had always been such an integral part of that. He was going to cry before this day was over. He could feel it threatening already.

_Our first tears are always for ourselves._ He quoted from somewhere. _Stop this! No one must see Gregory House cry!_

House hung onto the ledge of the observation portal for dear life, knowing he would not be able to do so much longer. He lowered his head onto his forearms to conceal the tide of fierce emotion that threatened to overtake him. He must find a way to get beyond his own pain, his own weakness, in order to be effective as moral support and otherwise to James Wilson, whose disabilities now eclipsed his own far too many times to calculate.

Standing there wobbly and half out of control, Gregg felt the breakdown coming on like a wall of water from a broken floodgate. No longer able to stem the threatened buildup of overwhelming sorrow, he could not have stopped it with an act of congress … or an act of God!

_God! Oh yeah … where are you? What a joke!_

Angry tears soaked his shirtsleeves and the front of his old blue button-down. His congested nasal passages joined in the catharsis and very soon he was drowning in his own waterworks.

"This has to stop!" He realized he'd said it out loud.

A pair of nurses on morning break walked by behind him in the hallway at that moment. They heard his words, turned and cautiously approached his slumped back. They both saw the cane on the ledge at the same moment, and looked at each other in realization of who he was. "Dr. House?" One of them ventured. "Are you all right?"

Those words! God, how he hated them! It took all of his fragile control not to scream at the two women who wanted only to help. "I'm fine," he said, and paused a moment. "Do you think … you could have someone bring a chair over here for me? Standing around is not my strong suit …"

Of course, Doctor. We'll find you one and come right back." They left, relieved.

He sighed raggedly, his body still pulsing with unresolved hurt and anger. They would probably forget him as soon as they turned the corner. You couldn't rely on people anymore. He looked again into the emergency cubicle. The team was getting ready to move. Trauma carts and crash carts were being moved out of the way. IV bags were being removed from the floor stands and transferred to a chrome pole attached to the gurney. Someone was covering Wilson's entire body with a warm white blanket. Gregg tensed expectantly.

He heard the wheelchair coming before he saw it. One of the nurses was back, pushing an old clunker with a grey vinyl seat and back. It had seen better days. Many of them!

_Aw fuck! When I said 'chair', I didn't mean one of those goddamn things!_

It had a wobbly front wheel that chattered as it rolled closer. The nurse pushed it over to his side, turned it around and put on the brake. "May I help you get situated, Doctor House?"

He shook his head, determined to "make nice". "If you could raise the right footrest a little …" he said, "I think I can manage the rest of it."

She did as he asked, then stood there as though waiting for further instructions.

"Thank you!" He said with a finality that threatened to launch ice-tipped arrows from fierce blue eyes.

She retreated, probably somewhere to get treatment for frostbite.

He lowered himself gingerly into the old chair, grabbed his pants at the top of the shinbone and raised his leg onto the padded rest. The misery in his aching knee abated somewhat. He wished he had his pillow. And his jacket. With his Vicodin. And his Kleenex. Not necessarily in that order. He maneuvered back to the port, this time watching closely from beneath the wooden ledge. He shivered. He was becoming chilled and he was getting the shakes. His head felt like a bass drum.

There were way too many bodies leaning over Wilson to be able to see much. House sighed with fatigue, paying too much attention to his own body's frailties, and not enough to Wilson's. That would have to change. James would be here in residence for many weeks to come, and House fully intended to be the one to take over his care.

_I can do this, dammit!_

In the weeks following his discharge, Wilson would be at home under Julie's care, and unless she bent a little and allowed Gregg to visit, the two of them would not see each other much for awhile. When James' PT began back at the hospital in earnest, however, House intended to be there. And he would remain there as long as Wilson needed him …

… assuming that he survived.

The gurney was moving. Someone moved ahead of it, holding the hallway door open. House pivoted the wheelchair toward the door, and his gaze met the dark, sorrowful eyes of the person in the opening.

Billy! Billy Travis, an old friend. Travis was an R. N., one of the best Gregg had ever known. Whenever there was a crisis, Travis always seemed to turn up in the middle of it, magic hands soothing, quiet and efficient manner doing what had to be done quickly and competently. The big man had been in attendance the time Gregg had been brought in with the leg infarction already in progress, screaming in agony. They hadn't seen much of each other lately, but now here he was, right where he was most needed. Their eye contact lingered; Billy looked a little nonplussed. A dark hand lifted in the air in a "don't move!" gesture. House did not fully understand why he complied with the silent request, but he did.

The gurney holding James Wilson pushed past the doorway and turned left toward the elevators, guided by four people in scrubs. Then Travis was walking toward House, looking into his haggard, fevered face, kneeling at his side. Unconsciously and unthinking, Gregg's palm went to Billy's upper arm in an urgent request for assistance. He needed to go where Wilson was going. His eyes shifted from Billy to the retreating gurney. His head pounded harder, adding to his misery.

"Gregg?" Billy was saying. "Boss?" His deep voice shook with emotion. "Hey, Man … what the hell happened to you? Why are you back in a wheelchair? First I get Jimmy all beat up … and now you."

House let his head drop, looked up sideways into the kind, shining black face, listened to the wooden beads rattle as Billy's cornrows moved. "I asked some nurses for a chair … Beggars can't be choosers. How are you, Billy? How is Wilson? You know I have to go with him …"

Travis frowned further. "Gregg, you sound like hell. Are you sick? I'm doing great, but it's obvious you're not. Have you hurt your leg again? What's going on?"

The R. N. half of Billy took over and he lifted the backs of his fingers to touch House's forehead. "Christ! You're burning up! Come on, buddy … talk to me. I won't give you an update on Jimmy 'til you do."

House looked away angrily, undecided whether to pull rank or do as Travis requested. He was feeling too rotten to do the former, so he settled for the latter. "I have a cold. A really shitty one … but I'm fine. My leg's not any different than it was the last time I saw you. It hurts because I came down here without my jacket with my pain meds in it. The damn wheelchair's because that's what that woman brought me to sit in … so I'm sitting in it. Tell me about Wilson!"

"Jimmy is busted up, Boss. Real bad. Both legs are mincemeat, and his left foot may not survive … but you already knew that, right? He's still not out of the woods because there are internal injuries we won't know about for sure 'til the tests are finished. His spleen is definitely wrecked, and they don't know for sure about his liver. Both kidneys are bruised, so he's peeing a little pink. He's lost massive amounts of blood, but that's being taken care of. We won't know for another twenty-four hours whether he'll make it, or whether they can save his foot. I can't give you any more than that. Sorry."

House closed his eyes and heaved a tortured sigh. "Ah, God!"

Travis nodded. "Yeah … God! Y'know Gregg, if nothing else, you might want to try saying a prayer for him."

Gregg looked up again, met Billy's eyes in bleak reproach. "Pray? How do you pray when there's no faith to back it up? 'God' is a curse word to me … not much else."

"I dunno, Man … you just do it!" His big hands took 'hold of the wheelchair's rear handles and turned it around to head for the elevators. House glared at him, but said nothing. He fiddled with his cane across his lap, feeling suddenly impotent.

They entered the elevator car and ascended. The last time he had been pushed in a wheelchair by someone, it had been Wilson, a few months after his infarction. They'd both been a little drunk. The wheelchair had very effectively held Gregg down … and at the same time, held Wilson up. He thought of the incident now with mixed emotions. He would have loved to laugh at the recollection, but just did not possess the strength. He began to wonder whether the events transpiring right now had any concept of normal reality. Might he possibly wake up from this nightmare sometime soon?

They arrived at the observation window of one of the diagnostic units. Wilson was already inside, being prepped for the electronic scans. They waited. Forty-five minutes later they took him straight to surgery. The entire medical trauma team was anonymous in surgical caps, gowns, masks, gloves. The operating room was a sterile field and the surgery was going down very soon.

Billy locked the wheels on the wheelchair and touched Gregg's shoulder. "I got some errands to do. Will you be okay?"

"I'm fine." House never took his attention away from the observation window. When he looked up for a moment, Travis had gone.

He leaned his head back over the backrest and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts were in turmoil, his emotions again very near the surface. Billy had suggested he pray. What a crock!

If there was a "God" out there messing around with the world, then He She or It was a sadistic bastard, probably on vacation somewhere and not paying attention to his servant Wilson. Must be playing golf in Santa Barbara or Miami Beach, and not sitting on His-Her-Its Throne Up There listening to the obsequious sniveling of the Great Unwashed …

Gregg felt the tears returning.

_Oh hell! Not now!_

_Hey You! Whoever You are … whatever You are … if You really exist … which I doubt … I offer my sorry ass to You gladly … if You will … PLEASE … not let my friend die!_

_Please …_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

27


	7. Chapter 7

AUTHOR'S Note: Apologies to all reviewers who have said such nice things about this story. Real Life has intervened this weekend with extended visit from family. I have not been available to answer your letters of encouragement, since these guys of mine come first. So-o-o … I'm not sure if you'll see this as a threat or a promise, but … "I'll Be Baa-ack!!!"

Bets;)

Chapter 7

"Ticket For an Aero-plane Ride"

Julie Wilson pulled the Avalon into the long-term parking area at Kennedy International, lifted a large travel-all valise from the trunk and hit the remote to lock things up. She'd made the call as soon as she'd heard Jimmy's pickup leave the garage. If she managed to get to the airport before one o'clock, she could book a one-way ticket to Denver on the first connecting flight out. If what she was looking for was not there, she could always return to Princeton at a later date. Maybe. She gave them a credit card number and rang off. If Jimmy ever wanted to find her bad enough, he could always check the card. But she doubted that would ever be the case.

After packing a few necessities, some easy care clothing and other important articles into the hefty travel bag, she found Jim's keys to the Avalon on the kitchen table, tossed them into her purse, took a final look around this "no-longer-a-home" and locked the back door behind her. She got into the car and took off fast. She was going to be a long long way from here when he got home from work tonight. There would be no harsh words, no recriminations, no tears, and most of all, no pleas for an eleventh-hour reconciliation.

Julie sighed heavily. Who the hell was she kidding? More than likely Jim would go running to Gregg House's apartment when he found out what she'd done, looking for a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on, or for that matter, both. They were so "there" for each other! Damned if she knew what was going on between the two of them, and truth be told, she was certain she didn't want to know. It was no longer her concern.

She would miss being married to Jim. He was even-tempered, responsible, an attentive and attractive companion, and certainly a man who was brilliant, funny, and a joy to be with …

…except where Gregory House was concerned! When Gregg's name was added to the equation, the balance changed like a bat-out-of-hell in his favor. She had stopped fighting it a long time ago. They were joined at the hip, and Jim "took care" of Gregg, because it was obvious Gregg would not … or _could_ not … take care of himself.

Gregg's leg injury, years before she'd met him, had left him very nearly a full-time cripple, and impeded by constant pain. God knew no one deserved that, but Gregg had learned to play it like a violin, intentionally or not. Probably not, but his pain had made him whiny.

Jim, being the bleeding heart that he was, had fallen very easily into the trap of making himself responsible, not only for aiding Gregg in maintaining his unpredictable health issues, but seeing to it that every time Gregg turned wrong or went into leg spasms, or hurt himself in some other usually stupid manner, Jim gravitated to him like straight pins to a magnet.

Julie had witnessed more than a few instances with Gregg House back on crutches, battling yet another injury of indiscretion, ashen-faced, but hanging on with stubborn determination not to let the thing whip him. She'd had to admire him for that, but those instances always took her husband from her and sent him flying to Gregg's side, mindless of anything else, silently supporting, literally hands-on; being there in case Gregg needed him.

Julie often wondered if Gregg had any idea of the toll his disability was taking on his best friend. She thought not. Or he didn't care. His infarction had made him thoughtless of others, especially sweet James Wilson, who would have gladly given his soul to have his best friend back the way he was before.

In the end, in order to put Gregg's dependence on Jim behind her, she'd had to put Jim behind her as well. It was sad but true, and she was so sick of being portrayed as the shrewish wife by Jim's colleagues at PPTH. They didn't much care for the acerbic Gregory House as he was now, but they cared for her even less.

Julie was ready for something different. She had old college friends in Denver; people she was crazy about, but hadn't seen for years. They'd bugged her often to come out there, but something always turned up: job obligations, home responsibilities. Jim's reluctance to leave Gregg long enough to come with her, had always intervened.

Damn both of them!

Now she was ready to create her own freedom with the chance for a new life and a new start. Julie could feel her optimism mounting steadily. If things turned out the way she thought they might, she would send for her belongings and never return to New Jersey again. She could call the Toyota dealer who'd sold her the car and have him pick it up here at the airport, put it back on his lot and sell it.

The divorce could be handled through a Denver attorney just as easily as from the law offices of old friend Ben Broadhearst back in Plainsboro. She could fax the papers to Ben, and he could call Jimmy to go to his office and sign them. End of problem. They would both be free to climb back on the Merry-Go-Round to oblivion …

She picked up her pace toward the terminal. It was 12:45 p.m.

There was no way she could have known what had happened that morning to put a "hold" on the life of her gentle soon-to-be-ex-husband.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Phone Call"

Lisa Cuddy hated this area of responsibility attached to her job, although she herself had taken it on because of that. She believed that as hospital administrator, it was her duty to get in touch with the relatives of badly injured or dying patients. To do so offered a cleansing dose of humility that this job couldn't provide any other way, and it kept her focus centered on exactly what she was there for.

Notifying relatives of victims was distasteful at the bottom of the scale, and painfully emotional at the top of it. Distaste she could handle. Emotional, however, was more difficult. She had never faced a more emotional confrontation than this one would be. Ever!

The telephone at the residence of Luther and Claire Wilson of Trenton, New Jersey, was ringing. Once, twice, three times.

"Hello?" A male voice.

"Am I speaking with Luther Wilson?" Cuddy began.

"You are indeed." The pleasant voice replied.

_So like his father!_

"Mr. Wilson, this is Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the Chief Administrator of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"Yes?" Polite interest.

"Mr. Wilson, I have some bad news." These calls always started out this way, and Oh God! How she hated the pain of this one!

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Another given. The pleasant voice became a little more tense. "What is it?"

"Your son, James, has been in an accident …"

"How bad?"

"I'm sorry. Very bad. He's in extremely critical condition. It is possible for you and your family to come here?" Cuddy could hear another voice in the background now, muffled, concerned.

Away from the receiver, Mr. Wilson spoke to someone there with him. "Just a moment, Claire … it's about Jimmy …" Things got very quiet.

"Jimmy" … They call him "Jimmy" … 

"Sir?"

"Dr. Cuddy. Jimmy has spoken about you. Often. But yes. We'll be on our way to you shortly. We must call Thomas, his older brother. Can you give us any idea of his present condition? How badly is he hurt? Will he be … all right?"

"Mr. Wilson, I'm so sorry, but there's not too much I can tell you at this time. James is in surgery as we speak. He has multiple fractures, head injuries and internal injuries. Right now he's holding his own, but that can change at any time. He is my colleague and my friend, and right now he's in my prayers. He's an admired and respected physician here, and a good man. We care very much for him. When you arrive at the hospital, please come in at the main entrance. Come directly to my office … first door on the right. I'll take you to him myself. Will that be satisfactory?"

Luther Wilson paused a moment, probably allowing the severity of the situation to sink in. Cuddy could hear someone weeping quietly in the background. Mrs. Wilson must have picked up on another extension. "We'll leave here right away to pick up Tom. You may expect us in about an hour, depending on traffic." The sonorous voice was stiff with restraint.

"Thank you," Cuddy said. "I'm so sorry about James. I'll see you when you get here."

"All right then … good bye, Dr. Cuddy."

Lisa rang off and put the phone down, glad to have it done with. Her palm was sweated wet on the receiver. She looked at her watch. Nearing noon. They would be here at one, or a little after. She picked up the phone again and quick-dialed the house on Ridge Road.

It rang. And rang. And rang. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring: "You've reached Jim and Julie's place, but we're not here at the moment. Please leave a message … thanks."

"Julie? Lisa Cuddy. Call PPTH please. Extension 3731. Thank you." She rang off. Where the hell was Julie? She'd called her work place already, but Julie hadn't shown up this morning. Hadn't called. No one knew where she was …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

30


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Billy's Mission"

Billy Travis hurried to Gregg House's office. He was on a mission. He was aware that the doctor had an ongoing prescription for Vicodin, which he took to alleviate some of his debilitating pain. Gregg mentioned that he'd left it behind, and from the way he'd looked a short time ago, he was long overdue for further medication.

The small vial stood on House's desk-table beside a half-full box of Kleenex tissues. He might as well take them both. In front of the black office chair was a matching black leather stool, upon which rested a plump bed pillow. Billy grabbed it and shoved it beneath his arm. He paused and looked around. The only thing left was the sport jacket that hung over the back of the chair. The hospital was heavily air conditioned, and sitting alone in a wheelchair outside an OR waiting for news of a close friend, had to be a cold and lonely proposition. There was a good chance Gregg would catch more cold on top of what he already had, and his health was already compromised because of his leg.

_Take the jacket!_

Travis dropped his bundle on the chair and prowled about in search of a discarded shopping bag that he could stuff everything into.

_Nothing in the office …_

He charged through the glass door into the deserted inner room. The coffee counter and sink area looked more promising. He pulled open one of the doors beneath it.

_Aha!_

A plastic grocery bag stuck out from a bunch of them stuffed into a cardboard box.

_Perfect!_

He grabbed the bag and stood up again. Beside the small sink, a line of coffee cups were upturned on the drainboard, and beside those, an open box of Sudafed cold tablets stood near a stack of plastic drinking cups.

_Excellent!_

Billy took the box and half the stack of cups and returned to Gregg's office. He stuffed everything into the bag, including the pillow folded in half.

_Mission accomplished!_

He gathered his bundle and pushed open the door to the corridor, cornrows clacking frantically.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg House had not moved from the spot where Travis had left him. His eyes were glued on the observation port, missing nothing that went on inside. Billy approached along Gregg's line of vision, not wishing to startle him. He needn't have worried. House's attention was riveted far beyond the area he occupied and he glanced up as Billy neared the wheelchair.

He eyed the grocery bag. "What's that?"

Billy noticed that House was trembling, his whole body shaking with what Travis believed was a combination of fever and a trace of withdrawal from his pain meds. He pulled Gregg's jacket and the bed pillow out of the plastic bag and set it down on the floor. "Stuff!" He answered to the grunted question, walking around to the front of the chair. Carefully he lifted House's leg and thrust the pillow beneath it before the man could protest.

House blinked and looked up. "Wha …?"

"Hush!" Billy told him. He held out the jacket. "Here, put this on before you shake your skinny ass out of that damned chair!" He grinned disarmingly.

Gregg shouldered into the jacket gratefully, made a face complete with wrinkled nose, and wrapped his arms around himself. "Thanks."

Billy continued. "In your right jacket pocket is your Vicodin. In the left is a box of Sudafed. I'm going down the hall to get some water, and I want you to take your meds, plus three of the cold tablets." He did not wait for an answer, but turned on his heel and walked away down the corridor.

He was back in less than a minute with a plastic cup full of cold water. "Here!"

House swallowed the pills, drank the water and handed the cup back. "Billy … I think I may shine your shoes for a month. I was getting kinda desperate for the little white ones."

Billy snorted. "Not many people bother to shine sneakers … and they're _all_ little white ones."

"Well then the _bigger_ little white ones! And you can shine your own damn sneakers." He attempted a smirk, but it fell flat.

Finally, Travis pulled the box of Kleenex from the plastic bag, crunched the bag into a small clump and placed the tissues in Gregg's lap. "You might want to blow your nose …"

House looked up again, frowning, concentration wavering. "Just what I needed … another mother!"

"Just do it, Man!" Billy said kindly. "Or I'll kick your ass! You really sound like shit … you know? How do you feel?"

"I _feel_ like shit. How do you think I feel?"

"How's Jimmy?"

"He's still with us …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

33


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Subterfuge"

Lisa Cuddy looked up as the door of her office opened and three people walked single-file through it. She'd been on the phone to one of the E. R. nurses and the latest news about James Wilson had been less than encouraging. She hid her dismay behind her professional face. She thanked the woman, hung up the phone and stood to greet them. "You must be the Wilsons," she said pleasantly.

They were a handsome couple in their mid-to-late fifties, the father a grey haired older copy of his physician son. His wife was half an inch taller and fifty pounds thinner, her dark brown hair sprinkled with silver, her eyes the same shade of brown as her son. The younger man was "Jimmy's" brother, obviously.

Lisa reached her hand across the edge of the desk as she moved from behind it to greet them. The older man grasped it in a brief, firm handshake and indicated those with him. "Dr. Cuddy, I presume. This is my wife, Claire, my son, Tom." The other two people nodded courteously, but it was clear their thoughts were elsewhere.

Cuddy scanned their faces and smiled tentatively. "I have some good news."

But her inner voice cried: _Liar!_

Their anxious eyes pinned her to the wall. "James is out of surgery. They've taken him into the intensive care unit, but he hasn't regained consciousness yet. I was talking to the O. R. nurse when you came in, and they say he has a very good chance to come out of this with about seventy-five per cent normal mobility." Lisa found herself clenching both fists out of sight behind the folds of her lab coat with the intense effort of maintaining a stern face.

When the woman on the phone said "… seventy-five per cent", her heart had come up into her throat. What could have been the odds that her two very best doctors … the finest, most gifted physicians out of the hundreds working at PPTH … would both be physically disabled in their lifetimes? It just wasn't fair. Not to them, not to her, not to the hospital.

Mrs. Wilson was reaching toward her, drawing her attention. She met the woman's worried eyes, so much like James' own. "Please, Doctor, what does it mean … 'seventy-five per cent'?

Cuddy led them to the long, mustard-colored sofa in the middle of the large room, gestured for them to sit down. They did, one at a time. She moved to one of the two chairs across from them, seated herself and shored up her composure, then began.

"You must be aware that James was instrumental in saving the lives of about forty school kids when he swerved away from their bus. When he did that, he pulled directly into the path of a refuse-container truck traveling in the opposite direction, which also had to swerve to avoid the bus. When they both did so, they hit head-on.

"The impact sent James into the steering wheel, and his legs were pinned under the dash." She purposely avoided mention of the engine entering the cab of the truck. "The bones and muscles of James' legs and feet were badly injured, and it broke his wrist as well. He is fortunate to be alive, but it is possible he will not regain full use of his legs. You need to be prepared for that. That is what is meant by 'seventy-five per cent'."

"Will he ever walk again?" The question came from the younger man.

"I'm sure he will, but we can't be sure yet how far his recovery will progress. I'm sorry."

She had said the same words to Frances O'Neill, Gregory House's mother, years before. History was dangerously close to repeating itself.

On the other hand, House had indeed walked again!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

House was still in the old wheelchair, and Billy Travis was still at his side. They were now in the corridor outside the ICU, having followed the medi-bed with its silent cadre of guardians as they pushed Wilson slowly through the door into the sterile unit and another team moved him to one of the cubicles where monitor hookups and life-support systems awaited.

House was not happy that no one would clear him to go in and sit by James' side, although he knew very well why it had to be this way. No street clothing was allowed, and no one with a cold or any sign of infection, and certainly no wheelchairs from the wards.

He needed to be close to his friend, needed to touch a hand, an arm, draw a finger gently across the bruised, sleeping face and prove to himself that Wilson was still breathing. He could feel his frustration rising, feel the blood pounding in his ears and the adrenaline rush pulsating through his body, spiking the pain in his leg. Wilson could not possibly know he was there, but it made no difference to House.

_House_ would know that House was there!

Billy could sense his friend's need. He'd known Gregg almost as long as Wilson, and the signs were unmistakable. The vein in Gregg's forehead was pulsing wildly, both fists clenched and the blue eyes smoldering beneath bunched brows.

He considered one other option, but was not certain whether Gregg was up to it.

"Hey … Boss?"

"Huh?"

"Uh … I have an idea that might get you in there with Jimmy … but if you ever rat me out, I'll have to break your face …"

The blue eyes cleared as the man in the wheelchair turned his face instantly upward at full attention. "How? Tell me! What must I do? I really need to be _in_ there!"

Billy grinned conspiratorially. "First, we need to get over to the women's locker room." Even as he spoke, his big hands were grasping the chair's handles, turning it around, heading back the way they had come.

"Women's … ? Locker room? Do you have any idea how long it's been since I was in a hospital's female-employee locker room?"

"Yeah, probably. You were still in rehab, so it was about …"

"You've got the memory of an elephant!"

"Yeah, Man … I know!" Billy grinned at the memory. They sailed down the hallway.

The doors to the RN–LPN (Female) locker room parted before them and Billy sped them through, turning left through the cement block dogleg. Mid-shift, it was empty and echoing. "Think you can walk all right?" He asked his passenger.

"Yeah, I think so," came the reply.

"Good." Travis handed Gregg his cane, which he had placed in the trough at the back of the chair for the sprint through the halls.

House took it, looking momentarily puzzled. "Now what?"

"Now," Billy told him, "we turn you into a nurse-lady. Simple, no?"

House's head snapped about, lip curling. "We do what? I get to dress in drag?"

"You heard me. Quit asking dumb questions! You gotta get out of that chair, go into one of those stalls, take your clothes off and take a shower … just as damn hot as you can stand it. In the meantime, I'll go on the other side and get you a 'girlie' suit and leave it on the bench. What size shoes you wear?"

House frowned, suddenly getting what his partner in crime was up to. Then, for the first time in many hours, he smiled. "Twelves. Now I get it … you're gonna sterilize me!"

The big man grinned back, shook his head. "Yeah … manner of speaking." Billy snapped on both brakes, watching closely as House gathered himself to rise. A quick intake of breath from Gregg told him this would not be a cakewalk. "You okay, Boss?"

House pulled an exasperated face, but answered quietly. "I'm fine. I think my knee just gave me permission to bend it again."

"I take it that's a good thing?" Billy's voice choked up for a moment, but House ignored it. He had enough on his plate at the moment.

"Yeah. Help me up, will you, so I can figure out where my balance is …"

Travis placed both hands beneath Gregg's arms, lifting slowly as the lanky body came out of the chair. He handed him the cane as he stood for a moment, searching for a fulcrum. He turned with effort and Billy frowned, watching him move away, his foot twisting at the ankle and dragging the floor as his faltering gait faded away to the nearest shower stall.

_Ah Jesus, Gregg! What a freakin' dirty trick life has played on you two guys!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregory House, M. D., presented an image reminiscent of a six-foot-two, skinny pink Barbie doll. Chewbacca in drag! The 'girlie-suit' scrubs were ill fitting; pants too short, surgical gown too full on his thin frame, and the generic white sneakers slowed him down drastically as he tried to get used to walking in them.

The 'sweetie-pie' surgical cap on his head hid the mop of grey-tinged hair, but reminded Billy Travis of a pink WWI flyer's helmet with strings attached. The cane, which he'd scrubbed down with alcohol, moved in cadence with House's halting rhythm, and was mostly hidden by the folds of the gown.

They walked slowly together, back in the direction of the ICU, and as they approached, House pulled a surgical mask and rubber gloves from the pocket of the gown. They stopped in the anteroom to Intensive Care while Gregg tore the mask and gloves out of their wrappers and fit them carefully. The mask completely concealed the doctor's trademark two-day growth of beard.

Other medical personnel assigned to the ICU spared him no more than a passing glance, and Gregg knew he'd gotten away with … whatever-the-hell he'd just gotten away with.

"You're on your own from here, Boss. I can't go in there 'til I scrub down and change, but first I've got to work second shift. I think there's a stool with wheels on it in the corner by Jimmy's bed. Last time I looked, it was in there somewhere. Be careful, and I'll see you later tonight. He touched House briefly on the shoulder, then turned and left.

Gregg walked through the door and let it whoosh closed behind him. He scribbled his signature on the clipboard at the entry in a scrawl that would be legible only to a pharmacist. The stool was exactly where Billy said it was, and he commandeered it quickly, breathing a sigh of relief as the stability of his leg fluctuated for a moment.

Wordlessly, he rolled to Wilson's bedside and sat very still, watching his friend sleep. Then he closed his eyes in a flush of delayed adrenaline rush. James was still with him. He rolled slowly around the end of the bed and up along the other side, checking the IVs, the morphine drip, the snowy mounds of bandages.

He found himself staring at the smashed legs. Both were swaddled in heavy absorbent padding with elastic bandages coiled around and around loosely. Both legs were lifted off the surface of the bed in not-quite traction. The left foot was the worst of all. House had known the full weight of the truck's engine had landed on it. The only consolation was the fact that both of Wilson's hips and pelvis bones had somehow escaped injury.

All the worst damage was from his femurs down. It might be a week or more before the swelling was reduced enough to put his legs into casts, and there still remained the critical surgery to reduce the multiple fractures and insert plates and pins to hold the fragments together.

House's eyes continued upward across the light bandages from the emergency abdominal surgery, to the swollen face, the disheveled hair, the long dark eyelashes resting on the bruised cheeks. He winced at the relentless pounding in his leg from not being able to elevate it, but at that moment there were other things so much more important than that. He reached up to the edge of the bed and did as he'd seen himself do in his mind's eye an hour ago: he curled his fingers very gently around the contours of Wilson's left hand.

"We're going to get you through this …" He murmured.

_Hey God! You there?_

For Gregory House, the outside world had ceased to exist.

He knew nothing … felt nothing … but James.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

39


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Sweet James"

Dr. Cuddy led the subdued Wilson family through the corridor to the elevator. They boarded one by one and she pressed the third floor access button. The lift rose smoothly for thirty seconds and lurched gently to a halt.

Down the busy corridors they continued. Doctors, nurses, orderlies and others bent on vital tasks known only to themselves, passed by without a glance. So it was in this particular floor on any given day. Contained hustle, quiet hysteria, silent desperation.

Now and again, piercing through the edgy mix of efficient urgency and raw emotion, someone would scream in pain. Someone would cry out in denial. Someone would wail raggedly with rage, or in sorrow or grief. The emergency trauma ward was a place of opposites: sudden death and heart-wrenching miracles. Cowardice and courage. Neither the Wilsons nor Lisa Cuddy knew what they would find at the end of this very long walk.

James Wilson's bed stood almost directly across from the lower end of the observation window. Three IVs still hung from the stainless steel pole attached to the head end, and a Foley tube and bag hung from the foot end. Someone had covered his torso with one of the hospital's light-weight white blankets so that all that was visible were his battered face, his hands, one of them heavily bandaged and raised on a pillow, the other lost somewhere beneath the blanket near his side, and the badly injured legs lifted in traction sleeves, but not in traction.

On the wall behind the bed, an array of life-monitors popped, buzzed and beeped loud enough to be heard from the corridor, their multicolored arrays jumping and twittering nervously as they told the story of his tortured body's efforts to begin the long process of healing itself.

Cuddy stood, helplessly watching, as James' family stared at their son-brother in ill-concealed sorrow. She could see the monitors from where she stood, and could tell from their readings that Wilson was holding his own, but still far from firm ground where recovery was a given. He was being fed a witches' brew of antibiotics and anti-infection meds, nutrients and painkillers, and he remained very deeply unconscious. Cuddy did her best to explain James' critical condition to his family, but they were not doctors. They had no use for grey areas. They wanted answers only in the black or the white. Would Jimmy live? Or would he die? She would not offer a guess at this time.

As they watched, the trauma nurse who had been sitting beside Wilson's bed the entire time they'd been here, scooted the wheeled stool around to the back of the bed, fingering the IV connections, observing the condition of the bandages and the catheter bag. He or she … it was difficult to tell … was working with skilled hands-on efficiency, rubber-gloved fingers touching knuckles to the sloping forehead, moving down across Wilson's temple, pausing a moment to rest on his cheek.

While he/she worked, the RN's eyes lifted and fixed on the ceiling tiles while gauging through touch what this patient's body temperature revealed through the long, sensitive finger tips of slender, graceful hands. Large hands. Cuddy stared. The RN was extremely slender, the eyes extraordinarily blue. Her eyes shifted quickly to the nurse's feet, holding her breath.

White sneakers. New ones. Hospital issue. Loong new white sneakers! A man! Oh no! Guess who!

Beneath the generous folds of the surgical gown, the telltale tip of an expensive, custom-made black cane held a few inches off the floor. Cuddy closed her eyes and counted to ten. How in the _hell_ had he managed to elude every hospital protocol in order to get in there against strict orders?

_How?_

The question itself had two sharp edges; but not so sharp, obviously, as House's ability to circumvent them. One: where had he found the strength to go in there after the way he had looked and felt that morning? And two: how had he managed to get 'hold of nurses' scrubs and pass himself off as an Emergency RN?

Lisa Cuddy knew she could not go in there to confront him dressed, as she was, in street clothes. But a personal confrontation with this brilliant pain-in-the-ass was definitely in the offing. She released a gush of held breath and let herself consider her options.

James Wilson couldn't be in better hands than he was right now. Gregg House's presence at his side probably increased his chances of survival by about fifty per cent. Screw it! It wasn't worth the hassle of fighting House on this. She hoped he was healthy enough to see it through, and she also hoped he wasn't doing something that would aggravate his leg in the process. She figured he probably wouldn't care if he were! This was, after all, _James!_

What was it he'd said to her earlier?

"When he regains consciousness … if he ever does, Dr. Cuddy … then we will see how closely I follow your orders." He had not been willing for the question to resolve itself. He and Wilson were closer than brothers in many ways; always had been, and she recognized House's need to be in there at his friend's side. She was sure it had something to do with "the shoe being on the other foot."

If it weren't so damn serious it might be laughable.

"Damn him! He _does_ care!" She'd spoken aloud and the Wilsons were looking at her strangely.

Lisa closed her eyes and sighed again, deeply. The Wilsons were grouped together tightly in support of one another. She stood apart from them, allowing them their privacy. She looked in at House again, watching his fingers, entwined in Wilson's hair, trailing down his jawline with the utmost tenderness. Comforting the unconscious man who didn't know he was there. Or maybe he did. Who knew?

Cuddy walked over to the Wilson family and quietly interrupted their sorrowful vigil. "If you don't need anything right now, I really must get back. There is a waiting room with coffee and snack machines right down this corridor, and we should soon have some idea of his prognosis."

She paused, then added with a completely straight face: "Right now he's being carefully monitored by the best 'trauma nurse' this hospital has to offer, and there is absolutely no one I would trust more with his care. If you should need me, I'll be at extension 3731."

Luther Wilson nodded, taking his attention away from his family only briefly. "Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. We appreciate it very much." They began to move away.

"You're welcome. I'll tell James' attending where you'll be, and if there's any change, he'll come get you immediately."

"Thank you again." They moved off, hunch-shouldered.

Lisa looked through the ICU port one last time. Gregory House was bent at the foot of the bed, laboriously changing the Foley bag, replacing it with a new one.

Devotion!

You really had to dig deeply to find it in this man, but if you knew how to look, it literally smacked you in the face.

_Smacked_ you!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

41


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Cheep – Cheep – Cheep"

They stood before her like three little birds perched on a telephone wire, bodies skittish, heads restless, eyes darting. Cuddy wished she had more concrete news to give them. All they had heard all day had been rumors. Now they demanded to know exactly what had happened to Dr. Wilson: when it happened, where it happened, how it happened.

All the information Cuddy had was second-hand also, maybe third-hand; gleaned in short rapid bursts from one of the local police who'd ridden along back in the ambulance when they'd brought Wilson in. She tried to tell House's young staff everything she knew, but it was difficult, and they kept interrupting with worried questions she could not and would not answer.

They were very little birds, after all. Peepies. Fledglings.

"Ducklings" was the nickname they all cherished because it was Dr. Wilson who had first called them that, and they were crazy about Wilson with his sweet temperament, quiet ways and off-the-wall sense of humor.

And they loved him because Wilson "handled" Dr. House with all his rantings and ravings, and his witty snide remarks about everyone and everything, and his diagnostic genius and his "fuck-you" attitude, and his deeply hidden caring heart, with only tiny snatches of it emerging at odd moments.

Like now!

House was not in his office, he was not in the other room snatching muddy cups of Okeefenokee Swamp coffee, and he was not prowling the hallways with that sideways smirk of his, in search of gullible victims or hospital gossip. That could mean only one thing: he was at Dr. Wilson's side where he fit so perfectly, and where they knew he belonged. No one could care more deeply than that!

Although they knew all this to be true, it was something they never, ever, ever said out loud.

Especially not to each other!

And so they camped in Dr. Cuddy's cavernous office, aligned like little birds on a fencerow, cheeping and chirping and demanding to know the whens, wheres, hows and whys.

Cuddy felt for them all. Lost and very worried.

Cameron, the baby girl; Chase, the bright-eyed pretty boy, and Foreman, the tough guy who really wasn't, and whose unspoken respect for his boss ran like still waters, so deep it seemed to have settled at the soles of his shoes.

"Dr. Wilson is critical," she finally said. "His legs have multiple fractures, his wrist is broken, there are head injuries and internal injuries, and there may have to be further surgeries. We just don't know yet. I was told earlier today that if he survives, there is only a seventy-five per cent mobility factor. He may never walk normally again."

She could see Cameron's eyes brimming, and from the dark expressions on the young men's faces, they were straining to maintain composure as well. "He saved the lives of a school bus loaded with kids," she added unnecessarily. They already knew that, but the grim reality of the situation did nothing to assuage their distress.

"Go back to your duties," she told them kindly. "Honor Dr. Wilson with what you do best: treating the sick. If and when there is any change in his condition, I will have you all paged immediately." She sighed ruefully. "You and half the staff of this hospital!

And keep in mind that Dr. House is in there with him. He couldn't be in better hands if Albert Schweitzer himself were in attendance. Now go! I'll talk to you later. We all have work to do."

She picked up the hand set of her phone and prepared to dial. They turned like a cadre of academy cadets and walked out single-file. They were very silent, sad little Ducklings.

When they were gone, Lisa Cuddy took a moment of privacy to place the phone back in its cradle and stare down at the surface of her desk for a moment as everything blurred.

_Oh, Dr. Wilson … stay with us …please …_

For the tenth time she redialed the house on Ridge Road. The answering machine picked up.

Cuddy hung up.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

43


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Opening a Precious Gift"

Midnight came and went. Night shift took over from swing shift, and the boulder was ready to be pushed up hill once more.

William Travis, freshly sterilized and freshly scrubbed, presented himself like a graceful panther at the ICU beside Gregory House's shoulder. He'd just finished with second-shift duties in the ER, and taken time to rescrub so he could enter the sterile environment where James Wilson still lay unconscious and unmoving.

Most hospitals might have moved Wilson to a private room by now, but PPTHospital was not "most hospitals". Critical patients often required an integrated team to monitor them, and James Wilson happened to be one of those patients. It was not unusual to see two or more medical professionals hovering; just being there. In case.

Dr. House himself had been running on pure adrenalin for hours. The wheeled stool was nothing if not uncomfortable, and yet he had not left it, doing his monitoring sitting down. To attempt to get up now would certainly have necessitated his having to leave James' side. His impaired leg was far beyond pain, and reaching toward the threshold of numbness. He knew this was not good, but he continued to ignore it, thinking to himself that if he'd been able to summon this depth of mindset while going through detox, he could have breezed through it while standing on his head singing Jingle Bells.

As it was, his back and shoulders had settled into the kind of wretchedness he'd experienced intermittently for the past seven years, and it was nothing; just one more game in the luck of the draw with which his particular life cards had been dealt. You utilized whatever ended up in your hand, and you just kept on playing the game.

He had not gone to the restroom since early afternoon, nor had he eaten. He was becoming desperate to do both, but was afraid to take a break, which would require that he stand up. One more thing he knew without a doubt: there was no way he would be able to walk, with or without the cane. He hated wheelchairs with a passion, but tonight he would probably need one. He was not complaining, however. That's just the way it was.

When Billy Travis placed his palm lightly on Gregg's shoulder, the doctor winced as though he'd been struck. "What's wrong?" Billy asked casually, although he already knew the answer. No one with a disability like Gregg's could tolerate sitting in one place this long without something a lot more painful setting in.

"Just a bit stiff," House lied. His hand still rested on James' uninjured one. "Been a long day, and there's been no change. He seems to be breathing all right. Heart rhythms are normal, but they were normal when they brought him in here this morning.

"There's no underlying reason why he hasn't come to consciousness yet … unless he's unconsciously afraid. If he doesn't wake soon, I'm going to back off the pain meds and bring him out of it manually. Rotten thing to do to your best friend, but I need him to wake up. I have to know if his mind is lucid. I don't like him being out of it this long. The whack on his head wasn't that severe!"

Travis was well aware that House was thinking out loud, and he kept silent, offering nothing that would interrupt the thinking process. Only when Gregg paused, did he offer his opinion. "It's your call, Boss. But before you do it, let me get you out of here awhile. We'll be gone at the outside … an hour. Jimmy will keep. He's not going anywhere, and you need to eat and go to the head. You need to take your meds and some more cold tablets. I'll help you rescrub after. Okay? Gregg, you have to look after yourself if you want to look after him!"

House groaned, straightening his stiff body with effort. He looked up into Billy's worried, black-cat face and decided to level with the man.

"I can't walk," he said simply. "My leg has taken a dump from sitting on this damn stool so long … and the other one is highly pissed off about it."

Travis nodded. "Figured something like that," he conceded. "I've got that old piece-of-shit wheelchair parked right outside for you, and when we come back, there's a new sterile one stashed in a storage closet down the hall a ways ..."

House closed his eyes and let his head fall back heavily between his shoulder blades. "Thanks …"

He was so tired. So sore. And so scared.

"C'mon Gregg … now! Your body needs a break. You can't afford to let this get to you; not when Jimmy's going to need you so damn bad. You're all he's got now, you know."

House frowned and looked up. "What?"

"You haven't heard, I guess."

"Heard what?"

"Nobody knows where Julie is. I've heard she's left him. Cuddy can't get in touch with her. It's like she's disappeared into thin air."

"Fuck!" Gregg's haggard face was deeply lined with fatigue, regret and pain, and he could think of nothing else to say which would express his mood more eloquently.

Just … "Fuck!"

"Come on now," Billy insisted. "Relax your shoulders and let me get you from behind. I'm going to lift from beneath your arms. Just let yourself unfold and I'll take your weight. Is your good leg strong enough to hold you once I get you up?"

"Yeah, I think so if we do it easy." He reached to the bedrail where he'd hung his cane, grasping it tightly. Billy pulled him up easily, but when House tried to stand, the good leg buckled treacherously and he began to sag downward again.

Travis swung his powerful body around quickly, moving in close. Bending downward, he curled his left arm beneath Gregg's shoulders and scooped his legs onto the other powerful arm with reckless ease; until he had House cradled gently to his chest like a father cradles an exhausted child.

Bodily, he carried Gregory House out of there as other staffers turned to stare with "What the …?" expressions on their faces. Billy eased him gently into the old wheelchair and got him the hell out of there.

Inside the ICU, James Wilson slept on, oblivious. Another RN stepped up and took over his monitoring seamlessly.

Travis took his friend directly to the sanctuary of the diagnostics office where he would be in the most familiar surroundings with total privacy. House desperately needed to relax and recover from the effects of his extended vigil. The one thing he did not need was the judgmental vigilance of prying eyes.

This late at night there were few people moving around in this part of the hospital; only a security guard passing by infrequently, and oblivious members of the housekeeping staff going about their duties. Billy assisted Gregg in removing the surgical garb, and the pill vials from the pockets and an unused wad of Kleenex stuffed in on top. House was still in no shape to get out of the chair. He sat with eyes closed, too tired to speak. Simply coping.

Billy waited him out. Five minutes later the dark head came up. House sighed wearily and looked about. "Thanks …"

"Sure, Boss. Feel better?"

"Yeah."

"You gotta go to the head? Think you can stand now? I can get you in there and help you out of the chair …" He paused to chuckle a moment. "But the rest is up to you. I sure-as-hell can't take a leak for you …if you know what I mean …"

House glared at him, nose wrinkling in disgust. "Ewww!"

"House, you are such a jackass sometimes!"

"Better watch it, Travis! I'm still your boss!"

"Oh no you're not, Man. Not _this_ week!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Billy brought them hamburgers, French fries and baked beans with Styrofoam cups of hot coffee from the all-night snack bar off the ground-floor lobby. They ate in silence with House taking care not to scarf the food like a starving puppy. He had not tasted a hamburger this good in his entire life.

Although still not inclined to try to walk, other than the effort it took to flounder about in the head, he felt almost revitalized a half hour later. He pushed back a sleeve and checked his watch . "It's time to rescrub and get back," he stated.

Travis knew there was no use arguing. Once his mind was set on something, House could always be counted on to barrel ahead with no holds barred. Billy put their meal residue in the nearest trash bin and returned to the wheelchair's rear.

"Hold on a minute!" House said.

Billy stopped instantly, on mental alert. "What's wrong?"

"Could you get me out of that damned right shoe? My foot swells sometimes, and right now it's rising like bread in an oven."

Billy stooped to untie the laces of the white sneaker and slid the shoe off Gregg's foot, readily noticing the growing puffiness forming below the talus on either side, and just behind the toes on the fleshy part of his instep. "You aren't kidding," he said. "Hurt?"

"Yeah," Gregg told him. "Not that bad though. Mostly pressure. The circulation down there isn't so great, and the ankle goes over sometimes when I'm tired … which doesn't help. It's worse when I do stuff I'm not supposed to do."

"Like sitting in the same position for twelve hours and not being able to elevate it?"

"Something like that. Okay, let's go!"

"Dammit, Gregg, you need to rest! I'm gonna get you fresh scrubs and let you back in there for three more hours. If Jimmy still hasn't come out of it, you're going somewhere to get some sleep. I'll smack you alongside the head with a baseball bat if I have to."

"Ya _think_??" House growled.

"I _know!_" Came the pseudo-surly reply.

"Niice!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The sterile wheelchair Travis pulled out of the storage closet near the ICU, was constructed of black leather and stainless steel, and was much more comfortable than the old grey vinyl one from the emergency ward. It was fully collapsible and the footrests could be lowered or raised as needed. And Gregg needed the right one raised as high as it would go.

Most of the discomfort in his foot and leg eased immediately as his leg was raised to a level with his body. He'd taken a Vicodin and some Sudafed and was ready to have another go with Wilson.

He was adamant about remaining with his friend until James came fully to consciousness before allowing anyone else to take over his care while he retired to bed for a couple of hours. This time when they returned from the locker room and passed through the ICU sterile field in the similarly sterile wheelchair and "girly" getup, no one batted an eye.

Gregg assumed Cuddy had called ahead to pave the way. Something like: "Let him alone 'til they get Wilson to a private room, then he'll be out of your hair." Yeah. Something just like that! Good ol' Cuddy!

At precisely three in the morning, under House's direction, Bill Travis backed off the morphine feed. By three-oh-one there was a noticeable response from the man on the bed as James Wilson began to react to the escalating pain. His heart monitor fluctuated and his respirations quickened. At his side, House sat tense and agitated. One minute after that, rapid eye movements told them Jimmy was rising to the top. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, and Gregg's hand, still positioned atop James' hand, could feel the fist clenching and unclenching.

"Come on, Wilson!" He demanded. "Get the hell back here! It's time to get awake, you lazy jerk! It works even better if you get pissed off at me! So get pissed _off_ at me, Wilson! Get pissed off as _hell_ at me!"

He was finally rewarded by a moan, weak and thready. "Wilson, dammit, wake up! Wilson!" He tightened his grip on James' hand, almost willing his friend to back away from the abyss.

"Come on Wilson, you bastard! You fuckin' moron! Come on! Snap out of it!"

Behind him, Billy Travis frowned in alarm, but still did not interfere. Gregg knew what he was doing. Travis tensed, backing away.

All other movement in the ICU, meanwhile, had stopped. Teams stood frozen in place, staring at the scene in the other cubicle. What the hell was Gregory House up to now? Was he trying to kill his patient?

The pain meds were backing off further, and James Wilson would soon feel the most terrible agony he had ever experienced in his life. House's weary head lowered onto the edge of James' bed. He was so tired. His body needed rest, and his leg had awakened with renewed rage.

_Not now!_ He screamed inside his head. _Not now! Damn you! Let me bring him back to me!_

Beneath his fingers, Wilson's hand clenched tighter. House raised his head to peer at the bruised, tortured face, then across to study the numbers. Then back. Wilson's REMs and respiration intensified. The abrasions and contusions across his chin and cheeks turned a darker hue. James' heavy eyebrows were deeply furrowed, jaws working, eyes squeezing shut.

The changes in the physical landscape were a good thing.

_Yes!_

Gregg was vaguely aware of a commotion in the background: one of the ICU's nurses surged toward him in anger, ready to tear his hands away from his patient and restore the morphine drip.

House ignored the man, and then heard the unmistakable thunder of Billy Travis's commanding voice: "Get the hell back and mind your own business! He knows what he's doing!"

Silence returned. Wilson was feeling the sharp edge of pain now, finally beginning the transition that would bring him to consciousness.

"Just a little more, Jimmy! Just a little more … I'm here, Jimmy! Come to me!"

Rapidly now, House's other hand reached toward the morphine drip, but Billy was there ahead of him, restoring the drip to its former level. A minute later, Wilson's body began to relax again, and then he appeared to be floating in a different energy field as the agony faded away, bringing with it the re-emergence of consciousness.

House watched; anxious gaze boring into his friend's hurt face, gradually releasing the breath he'd been holding while his face tried to turn blue.

Below him, Wilson's wounded dark eyes cracked open slowly and regarded his best friend with a puzzled frown.

James blinked. "Mmmfff … House … ? Where am I?"

Gregg slumped, incredibly overcome with pent-up emotion. All the pain he'd held to the peripheral for hour upon hour came flooding back to surround his drained body with layers of spreading misery. But unlike so many times before, his own pain was no longer a consideration in the face of this unfolding miracle.

Behind him, someone muttered incredulously: "Jesus Christ! The son-of-a-bitch did it!"

House smiled. He looked up at last, and felt as though he'd just been baptized with new life.

He was finally being allowed to open the most precious gift he'd ever received.

"Hey Wilson … you're here … right where I need you to be, you slacker!" He didn't realize he was grinning from ear to ear.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

51


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"An Accounting of Hours"

The couch in Wilson's office was an old Kroehler Convertible, left over from the days when James' parents had first "taken up housekeeping", as they used to say. It was ugly, and all the stuffing had long since fallen away from the tattered material of the arms, but it was big and long and comfortable, and it had two pillows, one of which propped up Gregg's head and the other one propped up his leg.

He'd taken his own key and opened Wilson's office, knowing the couch was there and that it was tall-person compatible. Actually, he had the keys to all Wilson's sanctuaries: office, house, car, pickup … just as Wilson had all of his … except the Envoy. He hadn't gotten around to that one yet. That last key though, the one for the old Ford pickup, sadly, was kind of an historical artifact now.

Changing back to his own clothing had been a chore, and House forgot where the hell he'd left his shoes. They had been gone from the RN–LPN (female) locker room when he went back there, added to the fact that the place was now occupied, and he was unable to search for them. He was wearing one damn white sneaker, and Billy Travis had finally gone home to bed, so he couldn't ask him.

Maneuvering the black wheelchair through the hallways at five in the morning had been a pain in the ass, but he'd done it, keeping his head down and spinning the big chrome rims like a bat out of hell. There was certainly nothing wrong with his arms!

Gregg was tired beyond measure. His body was one gigantic ache. He hoped he would be able to snatch a few hours' sleep before heading back to the ICU. He wanted to be there when they moved James Wilson to a private room. Not just _wanted_ to be there … _had_ to be there! He needed to talk to his friend and stand beside him when James came fully to consciousness and found out the extent of his injuries. House needed to hold his friend's hand if he had to, even though that kind of stuff in the cold light of day would look really bad for his reputation as a "miserable bastard".

For once this scenario wasn't about him, and that admission, even inside his own head at this God-awful hour of the morning, was a revelation. He hadn't done one single thing for another person, of his own accord, that he could remember, for more years than he could count on both hands and both feet. He only used the "bedside manner" crap when absolutely necessary. It always rang a sour note with him, even though he was being paid a princely sum for saying such shit to people he didn't even like.

Every decision, every choice, every declaration and its result had been about a benefit of some kind for Gregory House. Once he'd gotten into this rut, he'd quickly learned that it kept people away from him and effectively squelched the "awww" factor of his disability. He decided he liked that. Sometimes the thought also occurred to him to wonder where this destructive path might eventually lead him, and what payment would finally be extracted in blood at the end of that long and lonely road. He didn't feel that way about Wilson though … and he didn't know why.

So damn tired! He wasn't making sense, even to himself. His last Vicodin was finally taking hold. Daylight was breaking through Wilson's vertical blinds. Three more Sudafed let him breathe a little easier.

Wilson's clock read 5:38 a.m., and in his befogged mind, he needed to move the Envoy off the street so the street sweeper wouldn't put a ticket on it … but wait! The Envoy was in the parking garage right next to Wilson's F-150 … except that the F-150 was in the junkyard … and he was on the couch in Wilson's office. He had to be up by eight. And he was so _fucking_ tired!

The last thing he remembered before finally closing his eyes, was looking at the shadow of the wheelchair looming a few feet from him, and laughing inside because he didn't really need to use it. He could walk by himself … _if_ he could dig the other shoe out of the back of the wheelchair … and _if_ he could stand to put any weight on the bum leg … and _if_ the pain just wouldn't buzz around in there like a ricocheting bullet looking to explode outward through every orifice in his body.

_Oh God! If I can't walk, how the hell can I take care of Wilson?_

Restlessly he slept. His eyes would not stay open any longer.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Cuddy and the Wilsons were waiting outside the ICU observation port at 7:45 a.m. Inside the room, a team of nurses replaced depleted IVs and the Foley bag, meticulously cleaning the drain port and sterilizing connections and surrounding skin areas. While they watched, someone upped the morphine drip and someone else lowered James' legs to the mattress in order to change the soiled bandages, check the swelling and search for any sign of infection.

Claire Wilson had to turn away after a first glimpse at the devastation, but her husband and older son stared in morbid fascination while the team worked gently and efficiently to swab the wounds with antiseptic, reposition new bandages and replace the padding and the wide Ace bandages to give support to Wilson's fractured legs.

The swelling was still too extensive to consider surgery, and the bruising and blood leakage from the wounds had turned dark and black and ugly. By the time Wilson's injured limbs had been placed carefully back in the traction slings and slightly elevated, more than three quarters of an hour had passed.

One of the Attendings entered the cubicle and checked things out, seeming satisfied at the results, and nodded toward the morphine drip. The same nurse who had intensified the increase in dosage, now turned the port to reduce it.

James was restless. He had been asleep though all the ministrations, but was now awakening and about to discover all the things which had happened to his body during the last twenty-four hours. The brown eyes opened, glittering with pain, but he was coming fully awake and aware of where he was, and fully cognizant of how he'd come to be there.

The whole story sprang instantly to his eyes as they widened with the discovery that he could not move. His mouth thinned to a straight line across his face, and sudden apprehension replaced the pain for a moment. He was frightened, and rightfully so.

His family and Dr. Cuddy watched him, aching for him.

They heard the clump of House's cane before they saw him. He turned the corner and limped toward the others in the corridor. He was haggard and pale, his face set in a grimace, and the tiny hairs at the back of Cuddy's neck stood quickly on end.

In a sweeping glance of appraisal, she learned everything she had hoped against. House hadn't been home, but holed up somewhere in the hospital to grab a few hours' sleep. His clothing was rumpled, his face looked like a scrub brush, and the glitter of pain in his eyes nearly matched those of Jim Wilson. He still wore the cheap white sneakers she'd seen him wearing yesterday, and wondered where his fancy grey ones were. The right one was unlaced and gapped. He hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't slept much, if at all, and his foot was turning slightly at the ankle. It was becoming a problem for him. He saw her scrutiny and straightened his posture to the best of his ability to do so.

House's first move was to gaze into the observation window and search out Wilson, whose attention turned immediately to his friend when he saw the movement. House recognized the look. "When are they moving him out?" He shifted all his weight onto the left side, cocked his right leg and sprung the hip. He'd left the wheelchair in Wilson's office, and now he wished he hadn't.

Cuddy felt for the man, but professionalism came first. "They just finished replacing all the meds and changed the bandages on his legs …"

"How's it look?" Not a question; a demand.

Not wanting to alarm the Wilsons, Cuddy shrugged noncommittally. "I've seen better. They should bring him out soon. He's awake and functioning, and he's going to want some answers. I thought I'd leave that to you. I heard what you did last night … and you're to be commended. Night shift saw it all. Joe Arthur said he's sorry he jumped at you."

"Yeah … well … Joe Arthur is an asshole." He swayed for a moment, then caught himself with the cane.

"House, are you all right? 

"I didn't sleep much last night."

Under her breath she muttered: "I could tell! But that wasn't the question, was it?"

House didn't bother to answer. He kept his attention to the man in the cubicle.

Their collective gaze was drawn to the window again. Wilson's bed was moving. One person on each of the four corners prevented bumps and pain. The doors opened and the bed was rolling out, heading up the hall past the elevator. House turned to follow. His fatigue was becoming overpowering.

Luther Wilson left his wife and son and walked up to House and Cuddy, even as the procession of his younger son's medi-bed and entourage passed slowly by. He held out a hand. "Hello Dr. House. How are you? It's been a long time."

Gregg switched his cane to the left hand and returned the handshake. "Hello Luther. I'm in pretty good shape for the shape I'm in," he said. "And you?"

"Not bad … at least until all this …"

"I'm sorry we had to meet again like this. By the way, I'd like to take over your son's care, if you don't mind."

"We'd be grateful if you would, Dr. House. Thank you for asking."

House nodded and switched his cane back. The five of them followed the medi-bed past the elevator, past the nurses' station, around the corner to the first room on the right. Gregg knew he would be spending a lot of time there.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

House paused outside the door to Wilson's room, number 344, he noted, and took advantage of these moments to swallow a Vicodin and a couple of Sudafed. He lagged behind, leaning into the wall, supposedly to give the Wilsons a few more moments of privacy with their son and allow Cuddy to visit briefly and assure him that his medical paperwork was being taken care of for insurance purposes.

House felt lousy again. Did he really believe he could keep this up? Was he actually going to be physically capable of doing all the things he expected of himself to remain at Wilson's side in the same manner in which Wilson had always been at his? Or was this some huge cosmic joke he was getting ready to play on himself?

Out of the blue he thought back to "Bones" McCoy and his miracles: "By golly, Jim, I'm beginning to think I can cure a rainy day!"

Oh yeah … doctors always made with the heroics on TV and in the movies. Real life doctors had limitations. He, Gregg House, was probably more of a "Galactic Quack" than a "Miracle Worker". But then, after all, that had been Scotty, hadn't it?

"House? Dr. House?" Cuddy touched his arm lightly and a static shock rippled through his body, startling him back to reality.

"Unhh …" His voice was unintelligible, harsh and scratchy, and his mind a blank. He cleared his throat and focused on her. "What?"

"I was going to ask you if you were okay, but I don't want you to hit me with your cane, so I won't. Besides, you look like hell, and I already know the answer to the question. I just wanted to say two things."

He cocked his chin and looked down at her disparagingly. "And those things are?"

"I want you to give the Wilsons a little more time with their son, and then you must ask them to leave because he's been asking for you. God knows why … you look like the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Then, I want you to sit down before you fall down. Then I want you in Orthopedics. I called Dr. Lyons and he's expecting you. I want him to try to find out why your foot has been a problem lately. These aren't requests, Dr. House. They're orders."

House pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. "I counted _three_ things, Dr. Cuddy, not two, and I will not be able to comply with the third. My foot swells, from time to time, when I overextend. There is no cure for that … and I will _not_ be going to Orthopedics."

"House!" If it were possible to shout in a whisper, Cuddy had just mastered the technique. Her face was bright pink, her teeth clenched and her cheeks puffed out in agitation. "I've already called him!"

"Call him back! I'm not going."

Gregory House smiled down at her with wide, snapping eyes, although his face was perfectly straight. He could do this stuff too. He hadn't watched Mr. Spock all those years for nothing.

Cuddy turned on her heel and stalked away down the hall.

He turned around gingerly and limped the short distance to the huddled family by the bedside of James Wilson. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a surgical mask, he slipped it in place over his nose and mouth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but I have to ask you to leave. James needs rest and medical attention. He will probably be in considerable discomfort this afternoon, but you can be with him during visiting hours this evening."

_Blah-blah-blah …_

Numbly, the Wilsons complied. After a few added moments of careful and loving caresses, they came around and filed out, dropping their own surgical masks into the bin near the doorway. "Thank you, Dr. House," Luther said as they exited.

"Certainly," Gregg replied.

"House …"

His name, coming weakly from the man in the bed, made him cringe and close his eyes to gather strength. He turned and met the look in the large brown eyes. "You called?"

"Come here!"

Overwhelmed, House did. He reached down and caught a fine strand of auburn hair between his fingers. "Hey Wilson …"

"You were with me … all night … weren't you? Above and beyond the call of duty." There was a smile there, but you had to squint to see it.

"Yeah. Didn't want you croaking on me …"

"Julie … not here, huh? Dad told me."

"I don't know. They can't get in touch with her."

"Doesn't matter. We were washed up anyway. I was mad when I left the house. I was coming to your place." His eyes closed momentarily. The small amount of talking had tired him.

Gregg placed a finger to the mask. "Shhhh! … don't talk. It's hurting you." He eased down into the visitors' chair and leaned across to touch the left hand. "I'll talk and you squeeze … once for yes, two for no." He'd seen this on TV a hundred times.

"House?" There was definite humor in the dark eyes now.

"What?"

"I can talk. No 'Marcus Welby' crap, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah. No melodrama, dammit!"

"But you always put up with mine …"

"I know. I'm just waiting for you to get tired of it."

"What if I don't?"

"I'll probably hang around anyway."

"Even a garbage truck couldn't put you out of your misery, huh?"

"Nah … just gave me a little more …"

"I know." The gruff voice softened. "Are you in pain?"

"Some."

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Six, maybe."

"Hold on." House levered down hard, pushing himself out of the chair. He placed his weight on the good leg and hobbled over to adjust the morphine drip. Hop-stepped back again, lowered himself to the chair. "Better?"

House's pronounced lameness was not lost on Wilson. He stared at his friend hard, evaluating. He did not give ground until Gregg became uneasy with the silence.

"What?"

"You know what. I'm okay. Don't make me ask. You wouldn't like what I have to say."

"Hold on, big guy … we're not going to make this about me!"

"Why not? I'll be okay until they take me off the morphine. I'll do my screaming then. But this has been hard on you, hasn't it?"

"I'm fine."

"Liar!"

"You're changing the subject."

"I didn't realize there was one."

Gregg's voice turned gruff. "Listen. I don't want to play games. I'm tired, okay? I have a cold. We can hash this out later when my ass isn't dragging my tracks shut. I'll have had a night's sleep instead of worrying whether you're going to heaven or coming back here to hell … and I'll be back to my usual miserable self."

"Actually, I didn't see much difference." The hint of another smile hung off the corners of Wilson's mouth.

Gregg knew his friend was tired beyond measure. They both were. Wilson needed sleep as much as he did himself, and it was still the middle of the day. His gaze flicked to the ceiling as it did sometimes when he was thinking of a snarky reply. But his brain was not working on all cylinders, and the retort never came.

"I need permission to go out to your house and check on things. Jule was expecting you to go back there, so she may not have battened things down the way they should be. You need to have the utilities turned off, mail and newspaper deliveries suspended. From the looks of you, you won't be going back there anytime soon. Do I have your permission?"

Wilson nodded. "Since when do you, of all people, need permission to go into my house?"

"Since you're not there, Wilson. Since I have no business going in there when you're not with me. Since it's a courtesy I would pay anyone."

Wilson's expression softened. This was House's way of showing concern, perhaps his only method of demonstrating his feelings of friendship … even love. Wilson had known him long enough to be able to translate House's words from House's concern. "You have my permission, of course. You always have. Thanks." He didn't gush. Didn't over-react. Never let House know that he knew that House had anything resembling a heart.

"Okay. I'll go out there tonight. Might even sleep on your couch and raid your refrigerator. But I won't eat your gefilte fish or matzo balls. Yuk! Is your pain receding?"

"Yeah, it is. And while you're there, drink a beer for me. That stuff isn't kosher, so you should be all right."

"Smartass!" House looked over to study the hurt face. James was fading away toward sleep again. He looked young and vulnerable. House wondered if ever in his own life he had looked like that. Sweet and innocent. He doubted it. Never could he remember looking or feeling anything but angry.

The anger pulled at his heart now, all over again. Why James? What had this kind man ever done to bring down the wrath of that damned "God Person"?

In his tired mind, the image of a white-robed figure stalked a green golf course with a nine iron across one shoulder. Uncaring. Oblivious.

He struggled painfully back to Wilson's office, flopped down on the old couch and slept again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

60


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Gregg and the Night"

Gregory House had always known immediately when his privacy was being invaded. Perhaps it had to do with all the months in rehab when he'd felt the approach of another pain-filled session at the parallel bars. Perhaps it was his fear of the torturous afternoon sessions, having to sprawl out on his back while some ham-handed Simon Legree tied his damaged leg into knots as he screamed in agony.

Ever since then, he'd had an instinct for knowing when something bad or hurtful was headed in his direction. He felt it now, and came to awareness quickly as the short, authoritative shadow loomed in the doorway of Wilson's hospital room. Surreptitiously he withdrew his hand from Wilson's, where it had been for the past hour, and tucked it down on the chair close to his hip.

Norman Lyons, the short, bald, bespectacled head of Orthopedics, entered the room and nodded to House in greeting. "Afternoon, Gregg," he said. "Dr. Cuddy tells me you won't be coming to see me this afternoon. That true?"

"That's true, Norm," House answered in kind. "You just won the ceramic chicken with that one! Cuddy worries too much. My _foot_ swells when I'm on my _feet_ too much … or not enough … and there's nothing your people can do about it. It seems to be the nature of the beast, and I'm not wasting my time … or yours. Like the man used to say: 'a difference that makes no difference _is_ no difference.'"

"Hmmm," Lyons murmured, "I hadn't heard that one before."

"It's an oldie … just like you and me."

"So how's our boy?" Lyons ignored the snark and pointed his smooth chin toward Wilson's bed.

"'How is he?'" House leaned toward the bed with wrinkled brow at Wilson's sleeping face. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was asleep."

"I'm being serious, Doctor." Lyons muttered.

"So am I," House replied, settling back into the chair again. "What is it you want? Delivering more bad news?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I'm sorry to say." The surgeon had the humility to at least pull a long face before continuing. "It's not very _good_ news, I'm afraid. We just went back over his X-rays."

"And?" Gregg's interest was piqued now.

On the bed, Wilson was stirring, roused by the murmur of conversation. He came to awareness slowly and let his attention flicker between the two men. "What's going on?" He asked thickly.

Lyons walked around the end of the bed and pulled up the other visitors' chair, then sat down close to Wilson's head. "As I was telling Dr. House," he began, "we were going over your X-rays, and the damage to your left leg, and especially your left foot, is a bit more serious than we had originally thought.

Wilson's eyes turned bleak, and House came to attention in the chair. "Tell me!" Wilson said.

Lyons stood up again, giving himself maneuvering room and talking space. "Well, your right side is going to mend pretty well. It's going to take some work, but we can repair it. Pins, plates, a few screws here and there, and you'll be able to take some weight in about three months or so, because there is minimal damage to the foot.

You're not going to be quite as fortunate on the left. Your femur is fractured in two places just above the knee. No problem. But below the knee we run into trouble. It seems that your truck's engine got in there and managed to rearrange almost everything." His little finger extended and pointed to a spot on Wilson's left leg to indicate the areas he was talking about. The surgeon seemed to forget he was talking to two other doctors, and began explaining things as though he were talking to any other patient.

White-faced, however, neither House nor Wilson interrupted.

"Your knee cap seems to have disintegrated. We must remove the debris and debride the muscle. The muscle itself seems to be repairable, and I believe we can replace the patella if we can't fix it. He looked away for a moment. He found it difficult to see their faces. These were colleagues, and he had already gone through this once, years before when he'd had to tell Gregory House his own bad news. He continued.

"Down further, the tibia also is disintegrated in an area about halfway between knee and ankle. We must graft new bone there. Whether we have the correct and matching specimens in our bone bank is not certain at this time. The fibula is splintered down its entire length, and we are unsure if it can be repaired. We hope it's possible. Your ankle is broken at four conjoining places, but we believe we can pin it and stabilize it 'til it heals.

"Your foot, however, took the full force of the engine's weight. There isn't much left of the bone structure, but we can't do anything at all until the swelling goes down enough for us to get in there and take a closer look. Your calcaneus is shattered, but the X-rays are shadowy and don't tell us anything. Sorry …"

Wilson's eyes were brimming. Across from him, tough guy Gregory House sat stricken, his face like a tropical storm system, blue eyes blazing with hurt and anger. He looked as though he'd been hit by a steamroller. His hand snaked across and grasped Wilson's arm in support. Lyons had never seen this man rise in support of anyone. He stared.

Norman Lyons reached down and touched Jim Wilson's shoulder. He drew no pleasure in delivering news like this, but rather Jim know the truth than continue to live on hope that never materialized. "I'm sorry, Jimmy," he said. "We're going to put our best people on this, and if we're not good enough, we'll call in someone who is. We'll do our very best by you, and we'll get you back on your feet somehow."

House lowered his chin to his chest to hide the emotion he could feel rising for the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours, while a stab of self-pity slithered its way through his mind.

_Oh yeah … just like you did me!_

Lyons excused himself. He muttered something about getting back to do a surgery, then left, slithering away around the doorframe.

House lifted his head and looked at Wilson, grasped his hand even tighter. The younger man's tears ran down his bruised face unchecked, and House knew if he didn't do something, his own oversaturated emotions would surely join the flood.

He reached across further and slid his right arm beneath James' head, then lowered his own face to rest it against James' shoulder. He sat still and held his friend until the tears ran out, and then he continued to rest there and hold him, just because James needed it. His mind wandered idly backward five or so years when James had gladly done the same thing for him. History was indeed repeating itself, and House wished in his heart that it wouldn't.

It was time to wake up now! The nightmare was becoming too damned personal!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

House waited until the Wilsons returned for evening visiting hours. He spoke with Luther and offered him Jim's home to stay in, as Wilson had asked him to. They declined, saying they were already checked in at the Raddison downtown for the week, but thank you anyway.

House made nice for a few minutes longer, then politely took his leave. He made his way toward the Envoy in the hospital's parking garage, still fighting the stiffness of the terrible white sneaker, and hoping to get to the sanctuary of his car before his leg caved on him.

His body stank, his clothing stank and his hair felt as though he'd rubbed butter in it when he ran his fingers through it. There was something about one's own shower in one's own home that just made one feel cleaner somehow. He couldn't wait to get to it.

Gregg let himself into his apartment on East Side Drive and tossed the keys on the piano. He kicked out of the damned cheap shoes right inside his front door, adding them to the clutter already there.

At this particular moment it was a lot easier to hop-step about on one-and-a-half legs than trying to find a way to comfortably put weight on the damned thing. He managed to get to his bedroom before he fell on his ass, and plopped down on the edge of the bed. His jacket came off, then the blue button-down, then the tee shirt and blue jeans.

His leg throbbed in tune with his heartbeat, and he eased the pants down slowly, always protecting it. He slid off the socks, then placed his feet together, comparing them. The swelling was going down quickly and both feet were long and bony again. He stretched behind him on the bed, reaching for the sport jacket.

_C'mere, all you little white beauties!_

He crunched two and two, and returned the vials to the pocket. Actually, the cold in his sinuses was beginning to loosen and he could breathe a little better now, although there was still some lingering congestion. The coughing and hacking would soon set in to bug the hell out of him for another week, and then that would be gone also. He could soon dump the Sudafed down the plumbing.

Gregg stood in the shower as long as he could stand it, as hot as he could stand it. He lathered his body and his hair and luxuriated in the therapeutic heat. Only when the water began to cool off a little did he shut it down and reach for a towel. He seesawed it down his back and rubbed it into his scalp with his long fingernails. God it felt good!

He was extra tender around the surgical scar and a little ouchy leaning down to dry the calf of his leg and the problem foot. For half an hour he lay naked across his bed, hitching the bad leg up at the knee as far as he could endure it, then got up, retrieved his cane, and dug out one of his many pairs of gray sweat pants, slipping them on easily. Plodding around sans underwear, felt good once in awhile, and he did it tonight, also wearing an old pair of moccasin-type bedroom slippers without socks, and a ratty tee shirt. Down-home comfort!

There was a large bowl of spaghetti left over from a few days before when his Mom had dropped it off for him. Francie had always maintained that: "Every boy should have pasta at least once a week!" She'd always seen to it that he had a supply every once in awhile. He put the bowl in the microwave and hit the _zap_ button three times. Later he doused the contents with heavy squirts from the Tabasco bottle and showered it with graded Parmesan. Ah, heaven! He drank a quart of milk right from the container and considered himself well fed. He rinsed out the bowl, turned it upside down on the drainboard, then doused the kitchen light.

It was 7:30 p.m. and there was one more chore to be dealt with. He was going to be true to his word and stay out on Ridge Road tonight. He tossed underwear, shirts, pants, socks, wallet, another of his collection of fancy sneakers into an overnight bag, snapped it closed and got ready to leave again.

The Vicodin and Sudafed were both kicking in, and he had placed the vials in one of the side pockets of the bag. He felt almost human. He doused the lights, flipped the switch to "lock", grabbed his cane and the bag and closed the door behind him. He made it back to the Envoy by 7:45.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg pulled himself, doggie-fashion, to the top of Wilson's back porch steps and sat down on the porch floor, thinking that it had been a lot easier when Wilson was there to grab him around the waist and ease him up a step at a time. But Wilson probably would never do that again, and so he'd had to figure out another way.

It was a little chilly out here tonight, and he drew his arms against himself a little tighter. Above him, a full moon and a sky full of stars glittered down, transforming this rural area into a silvery wonderland. He stretched his leg down over the expanse of steps as far as it would reach, and absently rubbed his palm across the spot where the quad surgery had put a sizable dent in his thigh. It ached as usual, but tonight it was not quite singing soprano as it had been wont to do lately. There was something else that hurt a lot more, and it was located, not in his leg, but in his heart.

House had come out here tonight to be alone, far away from human habitation, and to get in touch with his flagging spirit and the turmoil of his recent confusion about where his life might be taking him, and where he would allow it to go.

Gregg needed a break from the emotional drain that marked the tragedy of Wilson's accident. It had been difficult to watch Wilson's utter devastation and thinly controlled despair over the lousy prognosis Lyons had revealed to them that afternoon. In all the years they'd known each other, spent time together and shared their thoughts together, good and bad, Gregg had never seen James Wilson weep openly.

After Norman Lyons had dropped his dirty bomb and left, Wilson had allowed his tears to fall for a long time. Gregg had seen only one choice for himself when the floodgates opened: hold him! Hold him and let the sorrow for his sea-changed life come pouring out. And he had. He'd sat with his arms wrapped around the bony shoulders, allowing his face to burrow deeply against Wilson's neck, trying to still his own sorrow by hiding there until he could deny its existence. Trouble with that was, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy … so fucking sorry. But you'll get through this. If I could get through it, you can get through it too."

Wilson had nodded slightly against his pillow. "Ah, Gregg, I'm so scared. I don't handle stuff like this as well as you do. I'm not as strong as you. Next to you, I'm a total wuss. And who's going to look out for you? Who's going to keep your sorry ass out of trouble and make sure you take care of yourself? What if something happens to you at home like it did a couple of weeks ago? I can't get to you anymore …"

The true implications of Wilson's words didn't hit him until much later. He'd always taken Wilson's mothering for granted, taken it as his due and accepted it as part of who Wilson was. Never before had he bothered to realize how much Wilson really cared for him as a person. As a friend. Really cared!

And here he was, sitting alone on the top step of Wilson's back porch, at the pretty Cape Cod out here in the boonies, admitting his wholesale guilt for his cold and angry demeanor, his selfish whining and his utter disregard for the feelings and sensibilities of this kind man who'd shown only friendship, and to whom he'd shown only snark and derision in return.

Only now was he beginning to realize that his off-putting wasn't anything like disrespect. It was something far deeper, far more frightening. It was fear of the way he really felt if he bothered to think about it. His fear for Wilson's life when he thought the man might actually die, had torn him apart with dread and regret for lost opportunities.

It was time for a sea change of his own. Maybe time for him to dig up an ounce of compassion and see if he could make it work for him! As a mother hen, House couldn't even come close. That was Wilson's domain. But he could do something that counted with Wilson. He could start by being a friend. It was a debt that needed to be repaid. He hoped he had it in him … and anything else he could think of to bring to the table.

_Think about it, House!_

Out here on Ridge Road, where the houses were widely spaced and stars twinkled merrily overhead with no city lights to spoil the effect, the serenity of the night filled Gregory House with a temporary sense of peace that he surely could not find in town.

Heartsick, but daring to hope, he turned his face to the starlight and allowed his eyes to drift closed.

Long minutes passed.

House shifted position, grunting briefly as his leg told him it didn't appreciate the disrespectful treatment. He flexed it to ease the mounting stiffness, and his small sense of peace fled. His usual feelings of loneliness and desolation overcame the quiet reflection, and a nagging body hunger nibbled at the raw places in his soul as he once again searched the night sky.

He could feel a strange kinship with the cosmos tonight, along with the silence and solitude of his chosen isolation. The night did not compel him to wear a mask of stone, as did the day. The night felt like some strange, benevolent being that reached out to enfold him, as he had enfolded Wilson's essence, allowing him to let go of the quiet desperation that ruled his life during daylight hours.

No one's worried eyes searched his own in the darkness, looking for signs of breached control. No solicitous hands that clenched into desperate knots in his gut, reached out to support him in pity for his pain, or simply to keep him from falling on his ass. How could they know their idea of kindness was killing him?

He would _not_ do this to Wilson!

The night ignored him when he did not try to conceal the agony in his face, or the despair in his eyes, and the lameness that marked his step and made him the crippled one; the one apart from everyone else.

The night did not mind if he allowed the worry and the loneliness of his solitary life to brand his features as though they were a direct pipeline to his aching heart.

The night embraced him and demanded nothing from him. It let him exist with the rawness of his physical and emotional barriers lowered and exposed to the whole world.

… _the same way he must learn to care for Wilson …_

The inhabitants of the day could not see …

… and the night did not care.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

67


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"Best Laid Plans"

The old black van cruised quietly along Ridge Road, adhering strictly to the 45mph speed limit. It was a plain vehicle. Nothing to make it stand out from any other clunker van in New Jersey, circa nineteen-eighty-something. It was a panel van; no windows except in front and back, no roof rack, and a lot of "dirt" on both license plates. Two driver's side cargo doors opened out and two back doors also opened out. Bottom-of-the-line cheapo, even when it was new. And it was not new.

The van's driver was as nondescript as the vehicle. He was short and compact, dark hair in a crew cut, stubble-faced, swarthy, hazel-eyed white dude. Nothing outstanding about him, and he liked it that way. His age could have been placed anywhere from forty to sixty. He wore a black tee shirt with jeans and dark sneakers; nothing distinguishable there either.

As he drove along the country road, he spoke earnestly to the kid in the passenger seat, a younger version of the old man, seated across from him. "It's a real rich-bitch area out here, son. Take a look at some of these places! Techno-geek hangouts. These guys make six-figure salaries … an' that's in a _bad_ year! Doctors, lawyers, computer whizzes, big business nerds … more money than brains, all of 'em."

The young one grinned. Dressed like the old man in dark clothing, he was learning the ropes quickly and his mind worked in the same devious and greedy way. Too lazy to work for a living and jealous of the possessions of others, he was the type of kid who walked along the sidewalk with a pocket knife in his hand, scraping gouges into the paint of parked Jaguars, Porsches, Caddies and Land Rovers. "Looks like we got a lot of neat stuff out this way, Pop. Boats, great lookin' old cars, horses, fancy Winnebagos …"

"Vacation season comin' up, kid," Rico Bardo told his son. And I haven't spotted a security system out here yet! Nobody bothers these places much. They lock up their places and leave. Go to the shore … go to the mountains … go to Miami … go to Vegas … an' the fun word here is '_go'! _ Like the Amish say, 'Too soon oldt und too late schmardt!' I do like them damn Amish!"

"Ohh yeah … when they _go_ … we _come!"_

"You're catchin' on. We just cruise by here a couple times a week … watch who's home an' who's not. When we see a 'who's not', we check it out a little closer. An' we don't take nothin' that's gonna be missed from the outside. Nine times outa ten we can get inside with no trouble … an' we just check out what they got layin' around. These idiots don't need all that shit anyhow … an' they can always go out an' buy more. See?"

"So, when're we gonna start, Pop?"

"Didn't yer Mama teach you nothin'? We already started!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Julie Wilson rented an apartment on Plains Avenue in Denver, her second day there. Ernie and Kathy knew the realtor, and she'd lucked out big time because one of his places had just been put back on the market that morning. The Gurskies had told her time and again that she was more than welcome to stay with them, but Julie wanted to be on her own as soon as possible. She wanted to have her furniture and other possessions shipped out from Princeton right away in order to leave that sorry life behind and start anew.

Julie sat down that evening to make some phone calls. She knew she would have to get in touch with Jim and have him pack her personal belongings for the moving company to load so they could ship it west. She would have to call him first, or at least leave a message so he would understand what she expected of him. Maybe he could even get his arrogant gimp friend to help him out. Gregg owed him after all! She punched up the number and waited. It was unusual for him not to answer. He was probably at Gregg's anyway, and she absolutely refused to call there. But the phone rang and rang, far beyond the interval after which the answering machine should have picked up. She hung up puzzled. Had he turned it off? Was the tape full? Had the battery died? She would try later.

At 9:00 p.m., Mountain Time, Julie punched up the Princeton phone number again. It would be 11:00 p.m. in Jersey, and he should certainly be home by this time. The phone rang and rang. As she was getting ready to hang up for the second time, a voice finally responded. "Hello? Wilson's."

The voice was gruff and half nasal, but there was no mistaking its owner. "Gregg? Gregg House? It's Julie … what the hell are you doing there? Where's Jimmy? Why isn't the answering machine working?"

She heard a muffled curse and was immediately ready to scream at him, but then his voice softened back to a level she'd never heard from Gregory House before. "Jule? Oh God, Jule … I'm glad you called. Nobody knew how to get in touch with you. It's James. He's been …" and the voice caught in his throat and broke off abruptly.

"Gregg? Gregg … what's going on?"

House's voice skipped a beat, then began again but choked off the second time as the man went into a coughing fit that lasted nearly thirty seconds. "I'm sorry," he finally said, "I have a cold."

She was ready to say something like: "Yeah? So?" but stopped herself. There was something in the timbre of the voice that was different and stood the hairs on her arms on end. "Gregg?"

The words came out in a torrent. "Oh Jule … he's hurt so bad …"

"Gregg?" For some reason she couldn't get anything out but his name.

"It's James!" It rasped out of him like broken glass and with such pain that Julie's heart skipped a beat. "He's been in an accident. He barely made it through the surgery. His legs are …" and the voice broke off yet again into another fit of coughing.

"Slow down, Gregg," Julie told him in the kindest voice she could manage, "before you hurt yourself. Calm down and tell me." Her tone was level and controlled, more so than his. She felt a sudden unexpected empathy for this man with whom she had never been able to find a common ground. He was broken up, his voice raspy, grindingly ill, and hurting very deeply. This was a facet of Gregg House she had never known before; a facet of him he had always denied her.

She heard him take a deep breath and struggle to contain another round of coughing. Then he told her about the accident, the long night of vigil, the abdominal surgery, the terrible maiming of Jimmy's legs, and the fact that his actions had probably saved the lives of a school bus load of kids.

And when he told her that her husband would probably never walk normally again, his voice choked with emotion. "Jule, wherever you are, please come back! Let him know that you care. He needs you. It was your name he said first when he regained consciousness. Please, Jule! I know you don't care much for me, but if you come back, I'll stay out of the way. Just come home! For James."

She was shocked at his admission, his candidness and his naked honesty. "Gregg … I will! I'll come back. I'm in Denver. I was going to relocate here. That's why I was calling Jimmy … to have him gather my things so the movers can pick them up. I'll cancel and take the next flight out. I'll be there tomorrow. The Avalon is still parked at Kennedy, so no one has to pick me up. He's at PPTH, right?"

"Yeah …"

I'll go there. You're house sitting, right?"

"Unhhh …?"

"That was a joke, Gregg."

"I wasn't sure …"

"You don't have to avoid me, and you don't have to get lost when I get there. Really.

This changes everything. Jimmy will need both of us, and we have to learn to get along for his sake. Can we start over?"

There was silence for a moment, the genius mind contemplating the odds. His answer was simple and direct. "Yes."

"When you see him, Gregg, please tell him I'll be there."

"I will. Good night, Jule."

"Good night, Gregg."

Julie Wilson sat on Ernie and Kathy Gurskie's living room couch with a look of shock and disbelief on her face. On the other side of the room, the Gurskies could not help overhearing her half of the conversation.

Kathy, the pretty redhead who had been Julie's college roommate, crossed the room to sit at her side. "We heart part of that, kiddo," she said. "Something's happened to Jim, hasn't it?" Across the room, Ernie got up from his chair and came to her also.

Julie nodded. "Yeah." Her eyes were filling up, running over onto her cheeks, far beyond her control. "He's been in an accident, and was lucky to come out of it alive. His legs are crushed and they aren't sure if he'll ever heal right. That was his friend on the phone … the one I never got along with … and he sounds … so different … so sad and scared." She searched her friends' faces for understanding, and found it. "Guys, I've got to go back. I can't leave it like this."

They understood. The three of them went to the kitchen to make coffee and talk in hushed tones. It was 9:30 p.m., Mountain Time.

Julie would leave tomorrow morning. Kathy and Ernie would cancel the apartment rental and call the firms with which she had placed resumes. Their friend was going back to the place from which she'd just arrived.

At least for now.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Cuddy and the Ducklings came to see him the next morning. Quietly they filed into his room while the nurse was performing the early morning routine; switching bags, checking bandages, taking temp, blood pressure readings and all the other things that went with the care of the sickest patients. James certainly qualified. He'd been drifting in and out of sleep ever since he'd regained consciousness more than twenty-four hours before. The swelling in his face had subsided a bit, so that he no longer resembled a greedy chipmunk, but the bruises had darkened in the healing process and were beginning to take on a more rainbowed hue.

The washcloth on his forehead as the nurse dabbed his brow, woke him to see the Ducklings standing stiff and horrified. They had been told of his condition, but no amount of prior warning had prepared them for this. Wilson was a tall, well-muscled man, but now he looked frail and small as a child, and so very sick lying there buried in white sheets and pillows. His arms were stuck full of needles and his body surrounded by beeping monitors; his severely injured legs were three times their normal size, wrapped in padding and Ace bandages and suspended six inches off the bed. After a time the nurse finished with the work and left. And they stood there. Stiff and horrified!

Badly injured patients they were used to, and had no trouble handling, gently and professionally. But this was different. This was a friend and a mentor. This was a man whose sunny personality they knew and respected, and his personal tragedy took on a dark meaning to each of them. They were deeply affected by their sorrow and pity. Obviously none of them had any idea what to do with it, and in some small way, each was getting a better understanding of how Dr. House must feel when people gaped at his pain, his lameness and his cane and judged him by those aspects alone.

Cuddy, of all people, understood how they felt. She had herded them here together on purpose, bringing it all home to them that it was indeed very difficult when someone close was dangerously ill or injured, a lesson Cameron and Chase had already learned the hard way, but needed to be reminded of again. They all needed to learn to "stuff" their feelings, no matter how painful, and their reactions, no matter how shocking. And Foreman needed to soften the hard lines of his face. Sometimes it really was all right for a man to admit to himself how he felt. He didn't need to emulate House's every nuance and not even know he was doing it.

Lisa Cuddy broke away from them and walked to Wilson's side. She took his uninjured hand into her own and squeezed gently. "How are you, my friend?"

Wilson managed a smile and a wink for all their benefit and nodded silently. Cuddy leaned down to kiss his cheek, then squeezed his hand again and turned to leave. She pointed to her watch and scanned the three anxious faces. "Five minutes," she said. "Then he needs to sleep."

The Ducklings gathered around after Cuddy left. "We miss you, Doctor," Cameron managed to say. "Please hurry and come back to us." She too squeezed his hand, and he nodded and smiled for her. He noted with some amusement that her hand was sweaty and trembling, but he did not let on that he felt better than they looked. They took their leave of him after precisely five minutes.

As they turned down the hallway toward the elevators, Dr. House stepped out of one of the elevator cars and limped heavily toward them. They all said the proper "good mornings", but he replied only with a brusque nod in their direction and continued on his way. Only Cameron turned to stare at his retreating back, but he was oblivious.

_Oh God, House …you are so hurt by this!_

When they stepped into the empty car, it took them back to House's office, the inner room, their morning newspapers, their cups of bitter coffee and their boring crossword puzzles.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"House!"

Wilson was glad to see him, outrageously happy to look upon his friend and find him still in one piece, freshly dressed and even _almost_ clean-shaven. Gregg was heavy over the cane, so James knew his leg hurt him like hell, but he was there, even though he looked like death warmed over.

House paused just inside the doorway for a moment and Wilson frowned at him curiously. House pulled a surgical mask out of his pocket and waved it the air for James to see. "I have a cold," he said. "And I have developed a cough that makes me sound like Francis the talking mule. So I'm not taking any chances around you. Can I come in and sit down awhile? My leg hurts."

He moved to the side chair without waiting for an answer, set down the cane and eased into the seat. He popped the lid of his Vicodin bottle and took one, then put it back in his pocket.

"Your leg," Wilson observed, "always hurts. My brain hasn't leaked out my ears that I know of, so I still remember about that. Did you stay at my place last night? Eat my food? Drink my booze? Smoke my cigars?"

House rolled his eyes and smiled slightly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, yes and yes. I even had a conversation on your telephone … which I have now decided I will not have the phone company disconnect, you see."

"Why?"

"Because the person I talked to was your wife."

"What?"

"You heard me. Relax. Lean back and take it easy so you don't hurt yourself. I talked to Jule last night. She was in Denver and had no idea you'd been in an accident. She's flying back as soon as she can, and will get in sometime today. It seems she's very worried about you.

"Wives do stupid shit like that sometimes, Wilson. They worry about the husbands they don't even particularly like, and come running back when they think they've been in hiding long enough. They hold their estranged husbands' hands and stroke their fevered brows and they even try to get along with best friends they can't stand … and sometimes it even works. If you play your cards right, Wilson, it might even work for a little nebbish like you. She's already decided I'm not such a bad guy after all."

Wilson grunted. "I don't believe you. Even if I did, it would be really crappy of you to tell me that just to see what I'd say. Remember, House … you're not the only cripple in the room anymore."

House cringed. He looked his friend full in the face, blue eyes turning opaque with all manner of regret. He had always regarded this man with every ounce of affection in his locked and barricaded heart, but had never even considered telling him so. "Not even a total bastard like me would be rotten enough to do that to you," he said. "She's coming. She'll be here today."

House struggled to stand. His emotions were rising too close to the surface, and there was another bout of coughing coming on. He moved across the room toward the door, removed the surgical mask and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Where are you off to now?" Wilson wanted to know.

Greg turned and smiled.

_Never let them know what you're thinking!_

"Unlike some people, who shall remain nameless, there are others who have to work around here. Go to sleep and I'll see you later. I think they're bringing you baby food for breakfast."

House turned and clumped noisily into the hallway. James could hear his hacking cough all the way to the elevators.

Wilson was at a loss. House? Work? What the hell was with him? He must have a new cartridge for the Game Boy and couldn't wait to try it out.

"Space Monkeys at the Monster Truck Rally" … maybe.

He called out weakly toward the hallway.

"House?"

But Gregg was long gone.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

74


	17. Chapter 17

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would like to be among the first to congratulate Hugh Laurie on his SAG win on January 28, 2007. This man is pure CLASS!

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 17

"Tearing Down Fences, Building New Ones"

The 737 touched down at Kennedy at 3:27 in the afternoon, but with the huge influx of west coast commuters, Julie Wilson didn't get to deplane until well after four. By then she was on pins and needles with apprehension about trying to make some kind of amiable connection with Gregory House, and an urgency she wouldn't have believed three days ago when she thought about seeing Jimmy in his current condition.

The terminal was steamy, ear shattering and elbow-to-elbow, and it was difficult to thread her way through the crowd. She had traveled light, so baggage was not a concern, but they rifled through her large purse at the security check-through, and she was late in getting to the Avalon.

At 5:25 she finally pulled away from the long-term lot into the mainstream of traffic and headed for the bridge to the Jersey side. Rush hour was over, thankfully, so she should be able to get to the hospital by 6:45 or so if nothing else caused her further delays. She took Route 78 out of Newark and called Dr. Cuddy's office on her cell phone at the first rest stop she came to. Cuddy, of course, was relieved to hear from her, and assured her that both she and Dr. House would meet her in Cuddy's office and they would all go to James from there.

Julie agreed and rang off. Forty miles to go. She came off Route 78 near Liberty Corners and sped down 287 until she came to the cutoff to 206 South. Not far now. She should pull into the outskirts of Princeton in another twenty minutes. Julie could feel her stomach knotting up the closer she came to her destination, and her mind began to flash pictures of her handsome husband buried beneath snowy bandages, snowy sheets, in a snowy white hospital room and surrounded by doctors and nurses in snowy uniforms and snowy lab coats. The only other color that painted itself onto the Arctic canvas of her fantasy was red: the color of blood.

The Avalon pulled into the hospital parking lot at 7:10 p.m. She hurried up the sidewalk toward the wide front entrance, mounted the steps to the big doors, then stepped inside. Lisa Cuddy and Gregory House waited for her side by side, foregoing the necessity of walking over to any office. Cuddy looked totally professional as usual, her dark hair pulled back from her face and cascading down across her shoulders in shining waves. Her lab coat over a beige business suit, was immaculate, and her demeanor totally neutral as she watched Julie walk toward them.

House was an entirely different story. All she could think of was that he looked like the wrath of God. Unshaven, uncombed, discombobulated, bleary eyed. He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week, and hadn't eaten for at least that long. His hand grasped his cane in a grip of iron as he leaned into it, and she noted immediately that only the toe of his right shoe touched the floor.

Cuddy wasted no time with preliminaries, but directed them to the nearest elevator. "Did you have a good flight?" She asked by way of conversation.

Julie nodded. "Flight was fine. Security checks at the terminals are rotten though. If not for those, I would probably have been here two hours sooner."

"James has been waiting for you all day," House noted quietly. His voice was hoarse and scratchy. He sounded ill, and Julie could not help but feel compassion for this man who had no one other than her husband.

"How is he?" She asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"He's very seriously hurt," House told her. "He's on a high morphine drip because there's no way they can do surgery on his legs until some of the swelling goes down. He's not in much pain, but he's pretty groggy. He fades in and out. Be prepared for that, please … try not to react with horror. I know it will be hard to do, but if you feel yourself beginning to break down, just walk up to him and bury your face alongside his. You'll know what to do …" His voice broke off abruptly into a fit of coughing.

"Thank you, Gregg. I'll try."

The elevator stopped on the third floor and they got off, walked past the nurses' station and turned right. James was in the first room. He was indeed waiting, his battered face turned toward the door, twilight sun glinting off the disheveled auburn hair, eyes dark and glittering.

Much to her credit, Julie went in smiling. "Oh Jimmy!" She went to him as House suggested and buried her face into the pillow beside his head.

What she did not see, however, was the tortured look on James' face as he glanced up to catch House's eye with an expression of all-consuming sadness and apprehension darting across his face.

Cuddy frowned and glanced at House also. House was staring back with a puzzled frown, for once at a loss to interpret what he was seeing. Then it was gone; vanished as though it had never been. Cuddy and House retreated, leaving Wilson and his wife alone together.

Back in the elevator, Cuddy watched her colleague closely. He looked tired to the bone, leaning into the side of the car, eyes downcast. "Shouldn't you go home tonight?" She asked kindly. "Get some sleep? You really don't look very good, you know."

"Never was very good looking," he shot back.

"You don't expect a comment on that, do you?" Cuddy shook her head. If this was the best he could come up with, he was indeed fatigued to the point of no return. "Please go home, Dr. House. There's nothing you can do here anymore tonight."

He snorted unexpectedly. "What I really need to do right now is go get totally plastered. Falling-down, throwing-up drunk. Would you like to come with me?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "No, thank you. I need all my brain cells for a hundred other things!"

The elevator stopped and yawned open. No one was waiting to get on, so he paused. "Yes you do," he agreed sarcastically. "You certainly do. I shall therefore go alone!"

He left the elevator … like Cuddy … standing empty and gawking, and stomped away.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At midnight he sat at the piano with his fourth Scotch. "Rhapsody in Blue" had fit his mood just about right, and he had beat the hell of the piano with it. Now he sat there feeling as empty as the Scotch bottle, beating himself over the head as he had beat the fine instrument beneath his hands.

He had eaten garlic bologna and Monterey Jack, washed down with all that booze, but his own emptiness persisted. There was nothing in his life to fill him up right now, no leveling influence, no gentle Hebrew conscience at his ear. Everything that was good and nourishing and that filled the empty spaces in his spirit lay helpless and in pain back at the hospital. And now Julie was back, and it was he who had called her back under some misguided sense of loyalty that beat around in his brain, telling him James actually wanted her back.

After that look Wilson had flashed to him a few hours ago, he wondered if he had done the right thing. True, the first word James had spoken after awakening from the effects of anesthetic had been her name. But Gregg now wondered if perhaps he had seen something that wasn't there.

He'd been over it and over it, beating it to death with a stick, but nothing near a resolution to his doubts had come forth to ease his agitation. Had he guessed wrong in asking Julie Wilson to come back to be with her husband? She'd seemed happy to be back, and more than willing to find a way to resolve all the past animosities, but something in the equation refused to ring true.

Why had Wilson thrown him that sad, hurt-puppy-dog look? And why in hell had that look sent him into such a tailspin? House was worried uncharacteristically that he might have done something to cause pain for someone he cared for. Right now he was powerless to come up with an answer that made any sense, and so he brooded, further punishing himself for all his past mistakes and all his callous disregard from a long time ago, and again wondering if indeed he was finally about to go off the deep end into something dark and murky and squalid, and from which he might never emerge.

House drained the last of the Scotch, set the glass up on the sounding board and pulled a bitter face. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage and his head was stuffy and pounding.

_You're not exactly drownin' your troubles, House … you're teachin' 'em to swim!_

He had to get up from there. His body was stiff and sore, his leg protesting mildly, but that was probably because it was as drunk as he was. He bet if he tried to get up right now, it would come awake fast. Wide awake! At full attention and screaming. His Vicodin was in the bedroom, not doing him any damn good in there. As a matter of fact, so was his cane. He'd been banging around without it, too blitzed to feel any pain. Now he wondered if he was a prisoner on the piano bench. What would happen if he attempted to stand?

What he needed was … was …

… Wilson's strong arms about his shoulders, lifting, steadying, murmuring, "… Easy Gregg …easy now … I've got you."

It was the "I've got you!" part that was missing, and it galled him; rasping across his sensibilities like sand paper across old glass. He was feeling sorry for himself again, whining like a spoiled child, and he'd told himself he was going to stop that. Wilson couldn't be here. The shoe was on the other foot! It was he who needed to be there for Wilson, and he had sworn he would do so. But he was drunk. Confused. Lost. And all because of one sad, puppy-dog look!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When House awakened the following morning, it was barely daylight, and he was on the living room floor with a couch pillow beneath his knee, a pile of old magazines beneath his head and the empty Scotch bottle just beyond the fingertips of his right hand. The little light on the piano took the edge off the darkness and he could get his bearings in a muzzy sort of way by squinting through half-opened eyes and concentrating on determining his position in the room.

He didn't remember how he'd ended up on the floor, but it didn't take a genius to figure out why. He wondered if it would take any weight this morning … or if he would have to pull himself laboriously upward and balance on one leg to hop into the bedroom.

Why in hell didn't he ever learn? His disability had often warned him in the only manner it could, that it was nothing to fool around with. Did he want to end up on crutches-or- worse on a permanent basis? Oh God no! His mind went backward to something he'd told Wilson not so long before: You stand on the same street corner and get hit by the same bus over and over …"

Something like that. And here he stood on the same street corner of his own making. Again!

Gregg rolled over onto his butt and sat up. "Ow!" He was paying for last night's binge, and in spades. He grabbed the leg of the piano bench and pulled it toward him, struggling upward onto his good leg.

The other one wasn't having any.

Somehow he got to the bedroom, to the bed and began to undress. Every move was painful. Bending down far enough to get shed of the shoes and socks was agony. The jeans and underwear weren't much better.

His thigh was touchy and sore, and his foot was puffy again. "Fuck!" He took a Vicodin and lay naked and vulnerable until it took hold. Gradually his leg calmed down, but it was still crampy and ready to spasm. Another lesson learned the hard way.

He stood in the shower until the water ran cold, then shut it down and toweled off. The heat had helped, and he could walk a little better. He hoped the worst effects of last night would straighten out by the time he was ready for work. He made a cup of horrible black instant coffee and two slices of buttered toast for breakfast.

_God! I've got to get some groceries around here!_

The swelling in his foot receded again and he was able to get both shoes on, although he kept the right one completely loose. He grabbed what he needed for the day, let himself out of the apartment and limped slowly to the elevator, to the underground garage. It was nearly 7:30 a.m.

Getting ready this morning had taken an extra hour due to his screwing around last night. He must cut that crap out! Wilson could no longer babysit him and it was now entirely his responsibility to do all the adult stuff himself. He must get it together or gradually let himself become a full-time cripple.

_No way, Jose!_

House drove to work, parked the Envoy and arrived eventually at his office. He pretended not to notice the Ducklings were watching him like three little hawks, saw how lame he was, and scattered to the four winds.

Today would not be a good time to get in Dr. House's way! Gregg smirked to himself. Sometimes the bad leg at its worst, brought some satisfactory results.

_Jesus! What kind of stinkin' thinkin' is that?_

He would probably be forced to do clinic duty this afternoon, but right now he needed to go to the third floor and check on Wilson. Nastily, he hoped Jule had gone home last night and had not yet shown up yet this morning.

She had. And she hadn't.

House got there just as breakfast was being served on that floor. Someone had raised Wilson's bed a few degrees, so there was some small illusion that he was sitting up. Now, on the fourth day after the accident, his face was clearing up nicely; just a few remaining daubs of darkness still on his chin and around both eyes. The swelling was way down and Gregg hoped the same was true of his legs. He lowered himself into the visitor's chair with a stifled groan. Wilson looked at him with a concerned frown, but House snarked it off. "I'm fine! It was a long day yesterday, and I'm stiff and sore. This freaking cold is driving me up a wall."

"You still sound like crap," Wilson observed, wincing as he moved his shoulders a tad.

"You okay?" House asked, starting to get up again.

Wilson grinned, the familiar boyish charm spreading across his face. "Man! We could write a song, House. Both of us! We could call it 'I'm Fine', and make a mint!"

"Touche, smartass!" House scolded, although his shoulders lifted in a grunt of laughter.

The breakfast cart stopped outside Wilson's door, the attendant with a tray in each hand, both of which she placed on the wheeled table. "Breakfast for our favorite doctors," she said brightly. "Dr. Wilson, can I assist you with that?"

House held up a hand and waved her off. "That's okay," he said. "I'll take care of it. You can finish up a little earlier. Dr. Wilson and I will share these. Thanks."

She smiled sweetly and turned on her heel. "Thank you, Dr. House. That's very kind of you."

After she left, Wilson in turn, smiled sweetly at his friend the way the girl had smiled at him. "Aren't you the darling … ?" He snarked quietly.

"That'll be about enough out of you!" House grumbled. He picked up a fork and began feeding Wilson his breakfast.

The trays emptied quickly. For hospital fare, the food hadn't been that bad. Better than syrupy coffee and burnt offerings at home. Between the two of them, they finished all of it, and now sat with what was left of the coffee. House wondered what had transpired between Wilson and his wife the night before, but had no business asking. So they sat, enjoying the comfort of silence, neither man speaking, neither feeling the need to do so. Wilson was still on heavy medication and was not in pain. That would come later when he had to withdraw from the morphine and begin oral meds. House hoped his leg surgery could be done before he became too dependent.

Wilson finished his coffee first and Gregg took his cup, set it back on the tray. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Wilson's were troubled.

"Julie and I talked a long time last night."

"I kind of figured you would."

"She's going to stay for awhile …"

"'For awhile?'"

"Yeah. We're not sure where it's going to go."

"And I'm not sure what that means."

"I think we've … you know … fallen out of love."

"Really?" Gregg felt a surge of relief and hated himself for it.

"Yeah, and she said she talked to you, and that the two of you sort-of made up. I know she feels sorry for me, and that's all that brought her back here. She feels partly responsible for what happened. I'm not sure if I told you this, but we had a fight that morning. Do you remember calling the house at six o'clock?"

"I did? I remember my phone was on the floor when I woke up that morning, but that's all."

"You were sick, probably feverish. I knew you had a cold a little while after I came out of the anesthetic. You still have it. I kind of figured you wouldn't remember. You do sound like hell … and you know how weird you get when you're sick.

"Anyhow, I told Julie I was going to head for town and check on you, and she threw a fit. We really got into it, and I slammed out of there like an idiot. I was headed for your place when it happened."

"I'm sorry … I didn't know … but what do you mean 'weird'?"

"C'mon Gregg … you know. Ever since your leg … your health has been so messed up. You were on crutches the night we met Julie … remember? You'd banged your leg on the piano bench and it put you out of action for a week. Your foot swelled up like a balloon. It scared the daylights out of me, and it's happened a time or two since."

"Oh yeah, I remember. Things like that happened a time or two, I guess, but I've gotten more careful."

"Oh sure you have! When pigs fly! That's why you keep crutches and arm canes hanging in your closet. That's why I bug hell out of you all the time. I don't want anything to happen to my best friend, okay? It made Julie mad that I spent as much time with you as I did with her. She didn't like you much …"

"Yeah, that was obvious. I don't particularly give a crap what people think about me … except maybe you … and most of the time I don't even get _that_ right."

Wilson's eyes widened. Never had he heard such a concession from Gregg House.

He blinked, strangely flattered. "You do enough …"

"Barely."

They sat. After awhile their hands found each other beneath the edge of the sheet. Later, they dozed awhile, and Gregg left for clinic duty noonish

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"The Best of Times, the Worst of Times"

Ten days after the accident, James Wilson's medical team put their heads together and determined that his swelling had diminished to the point that the surgery to repair his injured limbs could commence. Norman Lyons broke the news to him early in the morning of the day before, and Wilson took the news with stoic silence as the orthopedist outlined the procedures to him, and the methods the team must use in order to assure the best chances of success. They'd begun to wean him slowly from the morphine, so Jim was already aware that his surgery was imminent. He'd been experiencing increasing amounts of pain, but they'd stop-gapped him with Vicoprophen in short doses to take up the slack.

More and more lately, he'd come to understand the extent of Gregory House's ongoing situation. His amazement at his friend's unyielding tolerance over and above the Vicodin dependence, left him weak with awe. He wondered if he would ever be able to summon the courage that Gregg had managed to maintain over the years of his disability. Wilson had often heard vicious rumors that House popped pills not so much for the pain in his thigh, but for the buzz it gave him because, as even he admitted, he was addicted.

Wilson had always known the rumors were not true, and he'd never failed to squelch them whenever he heard them. House took the medication because he lived with constant pain. Vicodin allowed him the ability to function, and as he'd often said, it took away his pain. It was very difficult to imagine having to live the rest of one's life in such continual torment. It was certainly proving possible in Gregg's case, however, and now that Wilson was getting a taste of it himself, he was certain he did not have what it took to live with it every day for the rest of his life. Lyons had not sugar coated the possibilities which might land him in the same situation as Gregory House.

When Lyons left after his less-than-encouraging pep talk, James Wilson sat looking down at his mangled legs in a mood of quiet despair. When the nurses came into his room to begin the early morning routine, he did not speak, but suffered their ministrations with averted eyes that brimmed with embarrassed tears. They did not question him, but left him compassionately alone. It was not hard to guess what Norman Lyons had been doing there a short time earlier.

Gregg House and Bill Travis entered from opposite ends of the corridor at that moment, greeted each other and sat with their quiet friend throughout the breakfast hour.

Wilson's parents, brother and wife arrived a little after eight. James' family closed in around him when they heard news of the impending surgery. Gregg leaned in to whisper something in Wilson's ear, which brought a tiny smile to Wilson's face for an instant, but then House and Travis excused themselves and left the family to its visit. Conversation buzzed behind them as they retreated through the door. Neither man spoke further of Wilson's surgery. It was much too painful a subject.

At the elevators, Billy Travis looked Gregory House up and down and nodded his head in approval. "You sure look better than you did a few days ago, Man! No shit! I didn't have time to say anything earlier, but there for awhile you looked like you were on your last legs … no pun intended … and you had me worried about you. How's your leg doing, by the way? You seem to be walking a little better."

House looked up at his tall, dark friend from beneath beetled brows. Not many people could get away with asking the blunt questions Billy managed to get away with, but somehow Travis seemed to know when and where and how. "I finally got rid of the worst of the damn cold," he said, "and that helped. Been sleeping better too, since I saw you last, and I haven't been on my feet twenty-four hours a day. So, you see, I'm fine. Oh yeah … and did anyone ever find my Goddamned shoes?"

Travis smacked the palm of his hand on his forehead. "Oh Maan … I forgot. I have 'em on top of my locker. Somebody dumped 'em in the laundry bin. Lucky for you they didn't get tossed in the tubs. I'll make sure I get 'em to you sometime today."

"Nobody shined 'em either, I suppose?" House muttered sarcastically, remembering an earlier conversation.

Travis laughed. "Hell no, nobody shined 'em, Smartass! You know somethin' else, Dude? Your feet _stink!_ Those shoes are smellin' up the whole damn locker room!"

"That's a delightful aroma!" House thundered back. "You should be honored."

All he got in return was a rolling of the black-marble eyes.

House shrugged. "Oh well … so where are you off to now?"

The big man laughed again, softly, and waved over his shoulder as he moved off down the corridor. "I gotta go see a patient who's a helluva lot prettier'n you! See ya, Boss!"

House entered the elevator and stepped off again down the hall from his office.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The Wilson family left the hospital at noon to go to a restaurant for lunch. Although invited to join them, Julie refused politely, saying she would remain with Jimmy and give him his lunch when it arrived.

In spite of his wife's recent attentiveness, Wilson could not shake an insistent foreboding that a bomb was about to drop. She'd remained at his side unswervingly since she'd returned from Denver, but her constant avoidance of any conversation concerning their future together had left him on edge and unsettled. He wondered if, indeed, she did leave him for good … he would even care.

Julie sat at his side even as his thoughts wandered in unproductive circles. She did not speak, but her fingers were busy on his face, across his cheeks, messing in his hair, generally lulling him into relaxation with sensuous movements on his skin. She traced his eyebrows and gently caressed his closed lids, and gradually he succumbed to the pleasure of the sensations and was falling lightly into sleep when Julie leaned across his body to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Jimmy … wake up, darling … your lunch is here."

He rolled with it, buoyed up and floating. "Jimmy …?"

He opened his eyes and looked up into her smiling face. "Why did you stop?"

She laughed, low and sexy. "Lunch is here. Aren't you hungry?"

The attendant placed the tray on the wheeled table. "I brought you an extra orange juice, Mrs. Wilson," she said as she removed the cover and turned to exit.

"Thank you," Julie called after her.

"You're welcome …" floated back, but the girl was gone.

Julie fed her husband his lunch in leisurely fashion, cutting the meat for him, buttering the baked potato the way he liked it, burying the diced carrots deep in the potato, knowing he didn't care much for them.

In the meantime, Wilson's mind swirled with confusion. Julie could be so caring in the right circumstances, but so aloof in others. He wondered what was on her mind. She would betray nothing of her feelings to him, and he wondered whether it was out of concern for his condition, or indecision of her own. He knew himself well enough to know he would never ask, and never allow himself to appear needy. Wilson ate his lunch listlessly and smiled at Julie, making an effort not to transmit his concerns.

From time to time James let his mind wander back to the morning before his family arrived. Gregory House had fed him breakfast, keeping up some nonsensical banter that went mostly over his head, whacking his sausage patty into four chunks, making him work for it, making him chew with his sore jaws, making him chew meat the consistency of old inner tube. The pancakes were ice cold, the maple syrup, luke warm. Bah!

This morning, however, Gregg House had appeared in a fresh shirt and jeans and refrained from snarky comment. Billy Travis was subdued also. There were three coffee cups and a carafe of coffee. They shared it and spoke in low tones about Wilson's surgery early the next morning. Then all the other Wilsons showed up and they'd had to let it go.

Just before he and Billy took their leave, Gregg walked to his side and bent down to whisper something in his ear. "See you tonight after hours. I'll check your chart, and maybe I'll bring you a beer."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The hospital was dark. Curled in for the night. It was after ten. Subdued baseboard lighting gave a comforting glow halfway up the walls and a short distance into the room. The only sounds were mechanical, the only smells, medicinal, the only sights, delusional. Shadows along the hallways hovered just above the floor, wavering and subliminal, luminous and pulsating at the junction between beginning and ending; solid and insubstantial; inside the glass, yet far beyond it.

Wilson blinked his eyes. He'd been in a netherworld of his own making, a world where nothing lived except illusion. His pain was increasing, pulsating and expanding around him. The call button was in his hand, but it felt unreal and he did not press it. Was this what it would be like when they weaned him from the morphine? Was this what it would be like when he had only the Vicoprophen? And what would come after that? He experienced it pressing down on top of him in fiery waves, overpowering him, quickly consuming him. The pain continued to mount, infiltrating his nerve endings and radiating through his entire consciousness, his soul and his spirit.

He pressed the call button …

And screamed!

The room lights blazed on. There was a flurry in the corridor, and suddenly Gregory House appeared at his side, flinging the cane against the wall until it cracked against the woodwork. A can of Coors Light wrapped in a paper bag thudded to the floor and flapped underneath the bed. Wilson was moaning, threshing from side to side in agony. House's hands cupped Wilson's face between both hands, his blue eyes radiating sparks of fear and blue lightning. "Wilson! What is it? What's wrong?"

"The … p-pain …"

Astute, discerning physician's eyes, diagnostician's eyes, flew across the monitors, the IV hookups, the tubes leading to the bed. The IV port! One of the connections had come loose and most of the medication was dripping on the floor. He shouted at the tops of his lungs. "Room 344! Stat!" Two of the night nurses skidded to a halt in the doorway moments later, and behind them an LPN pushing a crash cart.

House did not remove his hands from Wilson's face, but yelled to the first nurse who ran to the bedside. "Reconnect the morphine port!" He commanded. " It's loose. Check the connection and bring me a new bag! He's in pain here! Get a move on! Suck your thumb _next_ week! Go! Go! Go!"

They moved like someone had set fire to their underwear. Thirty seconds later a new bag was installed and the port replaced with a fresh one. James Wilson wilted within his friend's grasp, sobbing in aftermath within Gregg's arms. House dismissed the nurses after a severe tongue-lashing, and they were glad to go.

House did not write it up. Not tonight. Not with a can of beer still under the bed! Someone had turned the port too tight and it had bitten through the tubing. He knew the four nurses would not let it happen again. He continued to cradle his friend in his strong arms, clinging to him tightly. Someone dimmed the room's lights back to nighttime levels as House continued to lean across James' upper body, protecting him from … what? The pain? The situation? The world?

Gregg's eyes were brimming and his heart was still beating a frantic rhythm in his chest, the after-effects of panic. He stared at the ceiling where Wilson couldn't see, and sighed so shakily that Wilson did indeed notice that. "Hey! Hey … House … I'm okay. You can let go now. Really. I'm okay. It's much better now. Thank you. Or should I say I'm fine?"

House backed away, hop-stepping a bit, searching for balance and the cane he'd thrown across the room. But he was smiling also. He located the cane and picked it up, eased back into the visitor's chair. He propped his chin in the palms of his hands for a moment, then reached out for Wilson's. "'Fine' works for me," he whispered. His voice was shaking as roughly as his heart was still beating.

Wilson turned his head on the pillow to look at his subdued friend with amusement. "Your wish is my command. I'm. Fine!"

They sat close, late into the night. Gregg would not leave. He clasped Wilson's good hand in an iron grip. Fear did that to you sometimes.

Wilson did not mention Julie or his misgivings. He clung to Gregory House like a lifeline. His eyes were on his mutilated legs, and he wondered what the surgery might bring. House needed time to roll with the punches and recover from an experience that had scared hell out of them both.

Tomorrow was coming up much too fast!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

87


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"O. R."

The room was sterile, all shining stainless steel and polished white porcelain. The people within it were sterile, hooded, masked, robed, gowned, with little green booties over their white sneakers. All footfalls were muted, all voices subdued. The loudest sounds were the air-filtering system and the clicks and clacks of sterile surgical instruments being laid out precisely on the sterile stainless steel trays. Beside them lay the serious weapons: surgical saw and drill, hammers and sharp little chisels gleaming malevolently beneath the overhead lights.

There was a faint ticking of the rubber wheels of the crash carts and their workmates, the carts which contained the cotton swabs, sterile pads, plates, screws, connectors, steel pins and other essential trappings used to pack wounds, repair splintered bones and staunch the flow of blood.

The Anesthesiologist was at his position, checking the electronic monitors, the hoses, the connections and the general readiness of his equipment. One canister of the endotracheal gas was already hooked up, and at his feet several others, backups in case of some unforeseen failure or malfunction. He checked the passage of the gas into the fitted face mask, making sure the lines were free of obstruction; checking the intubation lines and tubes, assuring they were at hand within a half-second's notice. In the middle of the room, the operating table was sterilized and ready, layers of extra absorbent padding at the foot end. Above it, the powerful lights with their diffusion lenses were lowered and ready to be turned on.

The surgical patient was green-draped, brought in slowly, still on the bed from his room. His meds dangled from a pole attached to the bed's rail and he was awake and aware of everything going on around him. When they took him through the double doors into the surgical area, the last familiar faces he saw where those of his family and Gregory House.

Gowned orderlies transferred the bed to the operating room and expertly transferred the patient to the med table, mainly through use of the bed's bottom sheet, lifting him gently from underneath and sliding his body across the narrow open space. OR nurses took over, hooking him up to cardiac monitors, catheters and BP, checking vitals and in general, double-checking everything which had been double-checked before.

James Wilson looked around. The clock on the wall read 6:00 a.m. and the surgical team filed into the room and took their places. Nurses removed all the IVs and replaced them with a single bag and an additional stanchion for the later transfusion of blood, then moved away as the anestheologist moved forward to take over. Other medical personnel were poised by Wilson's legs, and beginning to remove the Ace bandages and the padding from his mangled limbs. He looked down, wanting to see and not wanting to see, but a sterile sheet was bunched at his hips to prevent that very possibility. Then the mask was lowered over his face, and he heard a soft voice telling him to count backward from one hundred.

Be began. He knew the drill. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety …" and he was aware of nothing more.

And so it began. The surgical team started at the right leg. These young men and women, two residents and an intern, were still in training, and had been assigned the task of repairing the less-seriously injured leg. Norman Lyons stood close by, monitoring their every move, offering suggestions and directions and guiding the team in a low and precise voice. The team opened the flesh, spread the musculature and ligaments and carefully realigned the bones. The drill whirred, the tiny holes drilled, the tiny pins inserted to correct the fractures.

Blood seepage was suctioned and swabbed away and the work continued. Downward from the femur, the patella was intact. Further still, the tibia and fibula were both fractured in three places. Again the drill whirred and again the pins were inserted, plates attached. The tiny bones of the foot were not shattered and Lyons concluded they would heal correctly on their own.

The team did not go in, but prepared the foot for casting. They closed the incisions from the tip of the femur to the top of the patella and bottom of the patella to the foot. They used a lightly padded fiberglass brace at the back of the leg and wrapped it rigidly with Ace bandages. These would stay in place until the sutures could be removed and the leg placed into a cast. The procedure had taken over two hours. The clock now read 8:17 a.m.

The left leg was a nightmare. Two fractures in the femur were repaired with no trouble, but below, their work was cut out for them and the pros stepped in. The young team stripped off their sterile coverings and went out to check with Wilson's family. The right leg would take time, but it would heal. Lyons and his team were working on the left one as they spoke.

Lyons had seen many wounds this serious before and he was no stranger to the difficulties often encountered with splintered bones. This case, however, was extreme. He knew this one was "text book" as soon as his scalpel opened the surface of the skin, and he could see the underlying damage. This one would take all his impressive skills and perhaps a bit more.

Norm wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps he should have removed himself from this case. He knew James Wilson well; had worked with him and trusted his judgment. Wilson was a gentle soul who had been endowed with a brilliant mind and a killer sense of humor, and that brought Norm Lyons dangerously close to being "too close" to his subject.

He had spent a lot of time studying the X-rays of this limb, and had at first thought there was no recourse than to amputate just below the knee. But as he studied further and called in orthopedists from other hospitals in the tri-state area to consult, they had determined that the man's vascular network had somehow escaped, for the most part, intact. Except for the mangled foot, which could swing either way, perhaps the leg could be saved by replacing that which had been reduced to fragments with grafts from the bone bank and reinforced with synthetics. Lyons and his two associates delved into the morass at 9:00 a.m. They would remain there deeply entrenched for most of the day.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

As the hours dragged on, one excruciating minute at a time, Gregory House sat like a stone statue in his office waiting for progress reports on Wilson. He stared at his computer, hardly seeing it. His chin was cupped in his left hand, the one that sported the big watch on his wrist. Lisa Cuddy had remarked one time that he had to have that big watch to counterbalance the big cane he wielded with his right hand. She had only recently discovered that an old shoulder injury prevented him from using the cane on the left side, the correct one for a right-side disability, but if he'd used it on the correct side, he'd have had to switch the watch! Whatever.

She'd been walking down the corridor, having just left the Wilsons in order to check in with ObGyn about a new resident on that service.

She spotted Gregg House sitting there, his leg stretched out, his head backlit, the wavy salt'n'pepper hair shining like copper shot through with silver. She paused in the blind spot at his office doorway and observed him keenly. Nowadays the fine-boned face, even leaner and more angled than in months past, spoke of a man in transition as his attention refocused itself on the concerns of James Wilson and away from himself. Could he possibly be finding some measure of peace at last?

Cuddy froze in place, concealed beyond the pillar of pulled-back vertical blinds, and continued to watch him stare off into space, his long slender body very still in introspect. She knew beneath the loose-fitting blue button-down shirt there were back and shoulder muscles hard as steel, and below his narrow hips, the left leg which now carried most of his weight, was corded and muscled like a long-distance runner's. She sighed. Such a grand illusion!

So why did the man appear so fragile in repose? Beneath the façade of lean strength, House's very essence seemed to suggest an impression of frail vulnerability, which was very confusing. It was almost as though he were an exquisite work of fine and delicate art, meticulously crafted of spun glass and spider webs, implying a fluid vitality, but which would shatter into thousands of tiny fragments if dropped.

Cuddy could not quite figure it out. Someone who did not know him, or know about him, might be taken aback by the sheer male beauty of him. Someone who knew him or knew about him, might notice the vulnerability, the deeply etched pain, or perhaps become enchanted by the depths of his beautiful eyes and the lively intelligence that shone out of them.

And that was House's secret. He was a contradiction, an enigma. He was so much more than a man who was hurt, and who walked with a cane, and who took great delight in insult jokes and bitter sarcasm. He was a fantasy creature because there was great sexual magnetism about a man in denial of pain. Cuddy's face softened as she stepped away from her hidey-hole and continued down the hall, chasing a twitter of fantasy in her own mind. If given the slightest provocation, she could probably fall deeply in love with him.

Behind her, blue eyes followed her as she turned a corner out of sight, but House's heart was tuned to the rhythms of Wilson, who was waging the fiercest battle of his life. He returned to his PC and the quest for further material on the after-care of persons with debilitating leg injuries. He turned his left wrist and looked at the big watch. It was nearing 2:00 p.m., and Wilson was still in surgery.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The call came to Cuddy's office at 4:30. The surgery was completed, and for the most part, successful.

"'For the _most_ part?'" Cuddy repeated.

"Have all interested parties in my office in half an hour," Lyons said wearily. "I'll talk to you there."

"'All interested parties,'" Cuddy quoted back gruffly, "include half the personnel of this hospital!"

"You know what I'm talking about, Lisa!" Lyons retorted. "Half an hour." The line went dead.

Cuddy called House. She paged the Wilsons. She paged the Ducklings. "Coffee shop in the lobby in fifteen!" They met, and then traveled en masse to the office in Orthopedics. Lyons instructed them to sit. So they sat.

"I have, as they say, good news and bad news," he began. "Please allow me to say all I have to say, and then you may ask questions. Agreed?"

There were nods all around, even from House.

"First of all, our estimate of seventy-five per cent mobility seems to be pretty close. Dr. Wilson's right leg and right wrist will heal completely with physical therapy and mild exercise. It's his left side that caused all the trouble. We went in and removed almost half his tibia, replacing it with a similar-sized specimen from our bone bank. The fibula was splintered beyond repair and we had to remove a good portion from the anterior area and insert a metal rod to reduce the possibility of further fracture should he ever be able to bear weight.

"We were able to save the patella … the kneecap. We had thought it shattered, but due to the shadowy images, we could not tell for sure, and it turned out to have been dislodged by the impact. We joined the fragments and pinned them in place. He will probably have limited mobility there.

"And now … his foot." Lyons sighed. "This is the worst of it. Evidently when the truck's engine entered the compartment below the dashboard, it forced the shaft of the clutch to penetrate his heel and shear off the bone. There was no way for us to make it right. We had to remove most of the inside portion of his heel. His Achilles tendon is

involved, as are the tendons and ligaments in the arch of his foot. The smaller bones were severely damaged, and he has lost two toes. What is left will mend to a degree, but he will never be able to bear full weight. He will have no strength, and it will be painful for him, even after the healing takes place.

"There are so many things we still don't know, but will have to watch closely. We may have to amputate at a later date, but that will be entirely his decision, and right now we'll just have to wait to see what happens. He's on antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, and we're hoping it will be enough. His legs are not yet in casts, but braces, because we must be able to treat the suture sites and keep them infection-free. We've cut back drastically on the morphine and his discomfort will be higher for the next few days. After that, we can wean him from them entirely and he can be maintained with other pain medications."

Lyons straightened and looked around the anxious faces in varying stages of shock and sadness. "There you have it in terms as understandable as I can explain them. I'm very sorry we couldn't do more. Are there any questions?"

The room was quiet, its occupants stunned to silence. No one knew of a question to ask which could give more information than they already had.

"Dr. Lyons, could you give us a time frame as to an approximate window for amputate-not amputate?" The question, of course, was Gregg's.

"We should know within the week," Lyons replied. "Unless something shows up before that."

"Such as?"

"Mainly, infection. If he runs a temp, we may be in trouble."

"I see. Thank you. That's all I have."

Claire Wilson's tremulous voice spoke up next. "When can we go to him?"

"Give him until morning," Lyons said. "Then you can go in two at a time. Anything else?"

There was only a continued silence. Lyons turned to move off. "I'm very sorry. Jim is a friend of mine, and this is going to change his life forever."

"Thank you, Doctor," someone said.

"You're welcome." Lyons looked up at Gregg House as though he'd forgotten something. "Dr. House, come into my office, will you? Since you're in charge of his care, I need to talk to you."

After the others had gone, House followed the other man into his office. "What's up, Norm?"

"Sit down, Gregg. Never mind what I said out there. I wanted to talk to _you_, and it's not any of their business."

"Yeah?"

"How is your leg?" He asked point black.

"What?"

"Don't get your piss in a bubble, Doctor," Lyons told him curtly. "I'm asking you because Jim requested that you come to him, so don't kill the messenger."

"He's conscious already?"

"Sure. We brought him out of it before he left the operating theatre. He's not in pain, but he's not 'out of it' either."

"Okay … sorry. Why do you want to know about my leg? My leg has nothing to do with this …"

"You'd be surprised. But just calm down and listen to me." 

Gregg frowned but did as asked.

"I'm asking because if you're in a lot of pain yourself, I need to make accommodations for you. He wants you in there with him … and what he wants, he gets. Although why he'd want you is beyond me!"

House glared, but Lyons was smiling. "Now, answer my goddamn question, Gregg! How is your fuckin' leg?"

"It hurts like a sonnovabitch! How's that?"

"That's all I needed. It's nice to finally know that the truth isn't all that strange to you after all, is it?"

House lowered his head, speechless. He and Norm Lyons had never seen eye to eye on anything, but now he was the recipient of Lyons' kindness. He knew, of course, that the kindness was because he was riding in on Wilson's coat tails. It amused him.

"My leg," he continued calmly, "always hurts like hell. It's a fact of life that I can't ignore, unfortunately, but I do have ways of getting beyond it. Seeing to Wilson would be one of the ways. If you could supply me with a chair and a stool that I can prop up on, I should be good to go."

"Okay. You have it. Thanks for being up front with me. Take good care of him, willya? He's one of the good guys!"

House smiled, one of his rarer expressions. "I've known that since Bull was a pup."

"Call my service if you need anything. I'm going home. This has been a real fucked up day. G'nite, House."

"'Night, Norm."

They parted. House turned in the direction of the ICU, deliberately minimizing his uneven gait, knowing Lyons' eyes were still trained hard on his back. His watch told him it was 8:45 p.m.

Where in hell had the day gone?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

95


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Decisions, Decisions"

When Julie Wilson appeared the next morning at 9:30, Gregg House was there. James had just been transferred from ICU to a private room, and both of them were half asleep and lethargic. House was seated in a comfortable looking brown leather easy chair, both feet shoeless, legs crossed and propped on a matching ottoman.

James was wakeful and restless, but that was mainly because he'd been switched almost completely off morphine and onto milder pain medications. His head was thrown back on the pillow, dark eyes glittering with the uneasiness of withdrawal.

The bedside table on wheels was littered with empty coffee cups, tiny creamers and little sugar packets. From the looks of the debris, plus the fact that the side chair had been dragged over beside Gregg's, told her Bill Travis had been there with coffee from the snack bar, and to check on Jimmy. God bless him, he certainly got around! Day or night, he could be counted upon to be there for anyone who hurt. He was a lot like Jimmy in that respect. When asked, Gregg and Jim both admitted Travis had come up there after working two hours overtime, and had brought the coffee. When it ran out, he'd gone for more.

Julie shook her blonde head and walked over to her husband, kissing him gently on the cheek. He smiled, but it was forced, and she knew he was hurting. The head of his bed had been raised a little higher than it had been in past days, and his face was almost back to normal proportions, with the exception that he had obviously lost weight, which he couldn't afford to lose. His features had become almost as craggy as Gregg's, and his cheekbones nearly as prominent. His right wrist had a new cast on it that looked more like a bandage, and as Julie looked at it, he waggled his fingers at her.

"See? Getting better. One down, two to go."

Her eyes filled when he said that. He was hiding behind a false good humor, still too traumatized to fully contemplate the reality of his dismal future. She turned her head away, and when she turned, it was in the direction of his legs. They had thinned. The new dressings were not as heavy as those they'd used while they waited for the swelling to go down. She could see the opaque fiberglass braces beneath the thin padding, and a myriad of dark sutures where the Ace bandages gapped at the top.

She stole a look at the maimed foot, and had to hold her breath for a moment. His legs were in traction slings and held higher off the bed. The foot in question was now narrowed by nearly half, and encased in lightweight bandages that barely covered the mass of sutures and darkened wounds. Julie could see where they had removed the splintered bone from his heel and stitched overlapping skin across it. It was not a foot any longer, but a "thing". It was a poor dead thing that was somehow still attached at the bottom of his leg.

_Oh … dear God!_

Julie turned her head back and looked around the room, anywhere but at Jimmy.

Suddenly she was gazing into the intensity of a blue-eyed stare. Gregg was watching her silently, sizing her up and probably wondering if she had the guts to be the wife of a crippled man. That would make two of them in her life … in her company … in her face.

She could almost read his mind, and her anger flared, along with her nostrils. To her credit, she kept any wayward comments to herself. House was contemplating whether or not she had the balls to handle it. As she gazed at him, frowning, the blue eyes softened and he twitched a corner of his mouth upward. She could not quite determine of it was his "snark" smile, or if it was genuine.

"Jule …" He called her what he'd always called her. He'd just never said it that kindly before, and she was at a loss.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was time to face the music. "What, Gregg?"

His deep voice continued, as softly as he'd said her name. "Hey kiddo, it's okay. It rattled me when I saw it too. And I cried. He's my best friend and I love him … even if I don't know how to show it. You know what he said to me?"

She shook her head, too startled by his sincerity to speak.

"He said, 'Hey House! It's still _me_!' And that made it okay. I'd love him if he had two legs … or four legs … or none. Doesn't matter." As she stared at him, the soft look turned to a glare. "And if you _ever_ repeat what I just said to another living soul, I will beat the hell out of you with my cane."

Julie smiled for a tiny moment and wiped the tears away. "Thanks, Gregg."

"Works for you too, huh?"

"Yeah. Mostly …"

_Mostly._

He watched her with those sharp blue eyes, his tongue stuck thoughtfully in his cheek. Tentacles of doubt niggled in his mind, and he realized at that moment that he had seen the look of a deer frozen in the headlights. Julie was going to leave. And soon. He looked at James Wilson and wondered if he had it in him to pick up the pieces and nurture some life back into the fragile creature she would leave behind …

They spent the rest of the morning talking to Wilson and keeping him company as he faded in and out from the effects of the strange new medication, diverting him from the shifting pain and getting him to talk about silly things from his childhood.

When the Wilson family arrived, the thread of funny little stories continued, his parents and brother taking up the slack and relating anecdotes of James growing up, and his hero worship of some older kid, and the day he broke his arm playing baseball. House filed it all away, knowing he had enough ammunition with which to torture Wilson for years to come. He remembered the broken-arm incident; that one had been _his_ fault!

For his own part, Jim Wilson sat and watched his best friend's fertile mind cataloging and filing away, groaning inwardly and rolling his eyes in despair. Armed with this kind of blackmail information, House could hold him hostage for the rest of his natural life.

When their eyes finally met, as the stories continued to swirl around them, Wilson knew without a doubt that Gregg was stuffing his snark file with ammunition that would come back to haunt him over and over again. He knew it, and House knew he knew it.

_Ahh … shit!_

His pain had receded, for the time being, into the background.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

One by one, the Ducklings stopped by during their breaks, not staying long, but popping in to say hello and ask how he was doing.

"Hi, Dr. Wilson," from Cameron. "I hope you feel better soon. I miss you, and if there's anything you need, let me know."

"Thank you Allison. I will."

"Hullo Doctah Wilson. Glad to see the ordeal's ovah." From Chase. "Need anything? Just buzz!"

"Thanks, Chase. I will.

Finally, Foreman: a snark face almost on an equal with Gregg's.

"Jeez, Doc … you look like hell! I hope you feel better than you look. Hey, Man … I'll bring you a candy bar later. Bet you could use one!" He grinned, the dark features lighting up from within. "Anyhow, good to have you back in one piece."

"Eric, you are such a crap shooter!"

"Is that the polite way of callin' me a 'bullshitter'?"

"If the shoe fits …"

Foreman guffawed, then turned and left.

Wilson frowned and looked down at House. "Is this what it's going to be like for the rest of my freakin' _life_?" He muttered. "Am I gonna be stuck making stupid, pitiful jokes about shoes that don't fit?"

House shrugged. "Yup. Pretty much. And all the ones who keep bugging _me_, I'll send over to you!"

"Oh … God!"

"Couldn't put it better myself."

Finally, House pushed himself clumsily to his feet and stepped into his shoes. He was stiff from sitting overnight, and even the cane didn't help that much.

"Ow! Shit! I'm stiff as hell! Gotta go find somebody to tie my shoes. No way I can bend over that far."

Wilson's frown turned to a scowl. "House? Are you all right?"

In spite of himself, Gregg laughed. "Mother!" He grumbled. "Don't start! I'm fine."

From the bed, a sigh. "Sorry …"

House made it to the doorway gingerly. He was due for a piss and a Vicodin … in whichever order. "I'll see you tonight. Late. This time I'll bring you a beer that you really get to drink. Wonder what they thought when they found the last one … Later."

"Later."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Julie Wilson cried all the way back to the house on Ridge Road. Old regrets and new problems tumbled about and mingled together in her mind, producing confusion she could not tolerate if she expected to live any kind of normal life.

Regrets from the past where Jimmy was concerned gave her pause when she thought of him the way he was now. She could not picture herself in the role of "attentive-wife-with-crippled-husband". Especially not this one! Sweet Jimmy Wilson did not deserve to be saddled with an indifferent, turned-off wife who was sickened and repelled by the fact that he would always be wheelchair-bound, crutch wielding.

"Crippled, yet humble" did not make an interesting combination, even in so handsome a husband. Standing by the side of a man on crutches with part of his foot missing, would throw him into the spotlight and she into shadow. She would not like that. She did not know what to do about it, but that was the way she felt. Feelings weren't right or wrong; they just … _were_!

Now, more than ever, the sights and sounds of Denver called to her as they had never called before. She must leave … get out of there! She would be running away again, the same as before. It was just that this time she could not blame it on Gregg House. And he _knew_! His brilliant fucking mind had already figured it out!

When she'd spoken to him earlier, she'd seen the accusation in the blue eyes, so discerning and so connected to whatever was best for Jimmy. But it was not Gregg's fault that she was the way she was. Now that he'd allowed her a glimpse into the other side of himself, she realized how damned charming he could be. This bitter, lonely man had a deeply buried heart that reminded her of a "one-man dog" … and he loved her husband a lot more than she did!

No! The problem was hers alone. She was someone who could not be satisfied with anything for long. She had a need for action and intrigue. A man with the gentle personality and quiet demeanor of Jimmy Wilson had simply turned her off after the initial honeymoon period.

After the first year or so when she'd found out that he really _was_ like that all the time, and that he cared deeply for people, she had to admit that he bored her silly. No one could possibly be that considerate, that patient, that often! But Jim was. He didn't have a "fuck-you" gene in his whole body.

Julie, however, was full of "fuck-you" genes. Always had been … and some of them were struggling to break loose right now. When she pulled into the driveway and punched the remote to open the garage door, she was already forming a plan of action. All her clothing and personal items could be packed into the two big antique trunks in the attic. She would fill them to the brims and leave them in the garage to be picked up and delivered to Ernie and Kathy in Denver. UPS or FedEx would do very nicely. She would leave all the big stuff: appliances, furniture, electronics, for Jimmy.

It would be fun to start all over again out west. Her head began to buzz in anticipation.

That afternoon found Julie Wilson, not at the hospital with her husband, but bent over two huge old trunks in the middle of the kitchen floor, heaping them full of everything she could find that would erase all memory of her years as Mrs. James Wilson, M. D. She was well on her way to returning to "sexy-and-available" Julie Keyser of Denver, Colorado.

She left a note on the kitchen table. The next time Gregg came out to check the place, he would find it and deliver it to Jimmy. They would be well rid of her.

And she of them!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was two days before they knew for sure what she had done. When she didn't show up at the hospital again, they knew something was up. Gregg went out to the house looking for her, and noticing when he did, that the place looked a little different. Bare, perhaps. A few little knick-knacks and old photographs that used to sit around had disappeared. When he checked further, he discovered Jule's wedding ring on the coffee table. A pair of diamond earrings James had given her on their first wedding anniversary sat beside it.

Then he found the sealed envelope in the middle of the kitchen table. He didn't have to be hit on the head to know what happened. He had been right about her, but there was no satisfaction in it.

The week before, James had told Gregg that he thought a bomb was about to drop. Well, it had indeed dropped. Sadly, House hoped the fallout from the explosion wouldn't cause too much damage.

Late that night, James read him the contents of the note word-for-word as he drank his Coors Light.

"_Dear Jimmy,_

_I'm sorry. This is the hardest choice I've ever made, but I can't do this. You don't need a hypocrite for a wife, and that's what I would be. I'm not strong enough to cope with two of you, and to tell the truth, I don't want to. I can't be more honest than that. Please apologize to Gregg for me. It's not his fault, and we nearly made it to friendship this time. I hope your recovery goes well._

_Love, Julie"_

Wilson's eyes were bleak, but not as bleak as House thought they might be.

"Well," he sighed, "it's not like I didn't see it coming …"

"Are you all right?" House asked, purposely setting him up.

Wilson grinned, happily taking the bait. "Oh hell! I'm fine! Pass the damn potato chips!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

101


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"Bread and Circuses"

It was midnight, maybe a little after. The hospital's lighting was turned down again; light enough to see where you were going, but too dim to find a penny at the darker edge of the corridor.

Gregg House got on the main elevator at ground level and rode it to the third floor. It hummed to a stop with a light jolt and Gregg paused before stepping off. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments and set his face purposely into the most pained expression he could possibly manage without looking like a nine-year-old in a school play.

In his left hand he held a plastic grocery bag, into which he had placed a white paper bag with warm delicious smells emanating, and cooking oil stains on the bottom.

When he moved into the corridor across from the nurses' station, the discomfort on his face was purposely contained, but outwardly obvious. He limped painfully up to the service counter and leaned on it with a wounded hiss escaping from between his teeth. He dropped the grocery bag at his feet. It was time to play it to the hilt.

"Is he awake?" His voice was sharp, at the edge of civility.

The charge nurse eyed him with concern, but like Dr. Cuddy, professionalism overrode solicitude. "Yes, Doctor."

"Has he had meds?"

"Yes. Two Vicoprophen at ten o'clock. Morphine is down to ten per cent. Dr. Lyons' orders."

"I see. Level of pain?"

"I'd say about a six."

"Any temp?"

"No, Doctor."

"Thanks."

He turned away, picking up the grocery bag, and started out, limping hard and piteously, for Wilson's room.

All three nurses stared after him. "He's in pretty rough shape himself tonight, isn't he?"

"Yeah," another agreed, "and in a surly mood."

House turned into Wilson's room and dropped most of the limp, but not quite in time. Wilson was wide awake and watchful.

"House? Your leg!" His voice was edged with worry.

Gregg rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. Most of the limp was a fake! I need the nurses to leave us alone awhile."

"You were faking? You're all right?"

"MiGod, Wilson, you're such a wet blanket! If I was really in that much pain, you think for a minute I'd let you see it? I brought you a surprise."

The expressive eyebrows went up in sudden interest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. When was the last time we had burritos?"

"You brought burritos?"

"I would lie to you? I drove like a maniac all the way from Taco Bell so they'd still be hot." He reached for the bag; reached into it. Brought forth two large deli-wrapped logs and placed them on the table. Two more cylinders wrapped in newspaper appeared beside the first two. Unrolled, they were cold cans of Coors Light.

Wilson smiled in appreciation. "Excellent! I remember the last time we had these things.

It's been forever."

"It was the night we put the Arctic Cat into the snow bank." House unwrapped the first burrito, leaned across and offered a bite to James.

His friend bit into it and chewed with delight. It didn't hurt him to chew anymore. "Oh man, this is good! The snowmobile? Jeez, I haven't thought about that in years."

Wilson's words were slurred a little, talking with his mouth full. Gregg was gratified to notice he was distracted from his leg and foot pain. "Bud and Francie's place … your Mom used to call me 'beautiful boy' … remember? Embarrassed the hell out of me."

"Oh yeah, and it always gave you a big head! She never called me 'beautiful boy'. Mostly she'd look at me and say stuff like … 'what in the world will he think of next?' Anyhow, it was a good day. That's the reason I brought us burritos when I saw them on the menu."

Wilson stared at him, watching the distant look in the blue eyes, perhaps wondering what he was thinking. "Hey! Come on! Gimmie another bite!"

"Sorry." House forked it over.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It had snowed … eighteen inches or more … beginning right after sunset, and Wilson ended up staying that Friday night at O'Neill's …

He and House sat up until the wee hours, drinking Yuengling beer, scarfing chips and dip, Monterey Jack and garlic bologna, shooting the breeze and listening to vintage Muddy Waters.

By morning the world had turned white and smooth, covering all of Man's mistakes and turning uninspired New Jersey into a winter wonderland. They'd both slept late, sprawled out on the living room carpet with couch pillows beneath their heads and each covered lovingly by Francie with afghans lifted from the back of the couch. The debris from their late-night gab session lay strewed about like a miniature junk yard near their sleeping forms: chip bags, collapsed beer cans, cashew tins and dip containers half empty and beginning to smell.

Silently, Francie did her motherly thing for "her boys" and cleaned up the mess, smiling to herself as she stepped over and around them. They reminded her more of two pre-pubescent boys than professional adults when they got together like this, and she marveled at their palpable regard for one another and the harmony they always created as an inseparable team. She could always imagine the two of them maintaining the same easy adolescent-type friendship they enjoyed now, even when they were both old and gray.

Jimmy and Gregory staggered into the kitchen at 9:00 a.m., following their noses to the aroma of bacon and eggs and fresh-brewed coffee, moaning and groaning while stretching their powerful, slender bodies and rubbing at stiff back and shoulder muscles.

"Take a look outside, boys," Francie told them, then sang a few bars: "'It's a marshmallow world in the winter, when the snow comes to cover the ground …' Remember that one Gregory? Dean Martin."

Grinning, he answered her in kind with a sonorous baritone; the wrong words at the wrong tempo, but proving that he did indeed remember the old song. "'There are marsh-mallow clouds being friendly … in the arms of the evergreen tree … it's whipped-cream date, who cares if spring is late … in winter it's a marshmallow world!'"

Jimmy sang along in a surprisingly warm and mellow harmony while laughing in delight, proving that he remembered it too. They ate breakfast with Francie and offered to do the dishes. But Francie shooed them, telling them to go out in the snow while they had the day off and could enjoy it. Laughing like a pair of ten-year-olds, they jammed their arms into warm jackets, added caps and gloves and exploded out the back door.

Snowballs flew like guided missiles for awhile, then disappeared from Francie's view. She washed the dishes leisurely, still humming the old Dean Martin ditty under her breath and thinking of Bud, manning the snow-removal equipment on the runways over at McGuire Air Base, and wondering if he'd make it home that night.

In the barn across the road from the house, Bud O'Neill's big black Arctic Cat sat fueled and ready for action beneath an old brown tarp. Like most Air Force men, Bud's mechanical equipment was always maintained in flawless condition. The Arctic Cat was at least ten years old, but it looked and ran like a new one. Gregg slid the tarp onto the floor, and both men grinned in anticipation of taking it out for a run.

They put their shoulders into the sliding door, then went back to hit the key and start her up. It roared to life with a puff of white smoke lifting from beneath the undercarriage. Gregg put the crawl into gear and walked it to the doorway. Snow was already drifting inside the barn in ghostly sheets, and they wasted no time running it outside and reclosing the door. Gregg threw his leg over the saddle and beckoned Jimmy to climb aboard behind him. Wilson was hesitant for a moment, wondering about his reckless friend's maneuvering abilities, but then lifted a long leg and swung it over, settling into the space behind his friend and locking his arms around Gregg's slender waist.

Soon they were on a hell-bent-for-leather roughshod ride in a wild, mechanical suicide machine. Wilson's grip tightened nervously about Gregg's gut. "For God's sake, don't run us up a freakin' tree!"

House's sardonic laughter floated back over the roar of the motor and the whistle of wind in their ears, just on the ornery side of ironic bliss. "C'mon Wilson! Where the hell's your pioneer spirit???"

Over meadows and hillocks they raced, dipping down through gullies that seemed to pull any sense of solid ground right out from under them. The Cat tore along at breakneck speed, leaving them breathless, careening past outcroppings of rock, and around trees and bushes until Wilson was certain his stomach was about to heave into his throat and toss his bacon and eggs to the wind. Cruising speed of a 747 he didn't mind in the least … but not on the ground!

Gregg House at the controls, reckless though he seemed to be, handled the powerful brute with the same sureness and deadly accuracy he exhibited with a scalpel in his hand. That was the moment when one of the treads broke on the ten-year-old machine, tore loose and flew backward like a torpedo from a submarine tube, careening past the rear end with killing speed.

_Tunk-Tunk-Tunk … Blinnng!_

The Arctic Cat wallowed to the right and skidded over, heading straight for a rocky outcropping that ended in a sloping, snow-covered bank. They hit hard with a cascade of snow and dirt and stones; not fast, because the loss of the tread had slowed them considerably, but enough to throw the snowmobile onto its side, spilling oil and fuel and sliding to a stop on top both men's legs, pinning them for a moment underneath.

"Get your foot under the seat and push 'er off!" Gregg shouted, "before the spilled fuel burns hell out of your leg!" He reached for the ignition and turned it off quickly.

Wilson understood and cocked his left knee, pushing with his booted foot beneath the saddle. Gregg did the same and the big machine slowly rolled upright. The handlebar was bent some, but it seemed no worse for wear. They stood up and brushed themselves off, knowing they would have to backtrack about three miles through the damned snow to find the broken tread and then walk home, wet, disgruntled and bedraggled.

Wilson raised an eyebrow and peered at House with a bedraggled expression that clearly said: "I told you so, smartass!" Fortunately, House knew better than to open his mouth if he expected Wilson to keep his own mouth shut! It was an equitable tradeoff.

Later that evening, they took the garden tractor out of the barn, drove it back to the snow bank, hooked on a chain and dragged the Arctic Cat home.

Bud got there a little after seven p.m. with a huge bag of burritos from Taco Bell. They sat at the dining room table and ate burritos until they were stuffed. Washed it all down with more of the Yuengling's. Lounged in front of the TV and watched Penn State basketball.

After he decided the younger men had been embarrassed enough, Bud O'Neill explained, with a heavy dose of sarcasm, that there had been a note under the tarp explaining the weakened tread clamp on the Arctic Cat, and if anyone chose to ride, kindly replace the clamp, which was in a box on a shelf on the back porch.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was the dead of night, and the hospital was silent all around them …

The two men dozed for a little while around 2:00 a.m. The burritos were history, the wrappers crumpled on the table. Gregg's beer can was empty and twisted. Wilson had barely touched his.

House awoke at 2:45 a.m. and looked over at Wilson. The younger man was restless, his head lolling on the pillow. He was still asleep, but about to come out of it hurting. House levered himself out of the chair to look. Something hitched sharply inside his leg, and he listed painfully to the left.

Wilson was awake now, holding his breath in distress. House grabbed his left hand and squeezed.

"Hey!"

Wilson's eyes opened, glittering with the strain. "Mmmfff … Oh God, House! Hurts."

"Your legs?"

"No. Foot. Oh God!"

House took a deep breath, held it. He reached into the opposite pocket from where he usually carried his Vicodin. Removed a vial of pills. Removed two from the vial, then replaced it into the pocket. "Here … sit up a little." He eyed the beer can on the table. "How much of that did you have?"

"Not much … couple of swallows."

"Good. Here … take these."

"What … are they?"

"Your scrip."

Wilson took the tablets and swallowed them dry.

"You're getting to be a real pro at this …" There was a forced smile on House's too thin face. His leg hurt like hell. He needed to sit back down. Instead, he leaned across and slid an arm beneath Wilson's neck; hugged him close. "Easy, big guy … I've got you. I've got you … "

There was a fleeting look of incredulity on Wilson's handsome face for a moment, but then he grimaced and hunched his body against the pain, trembling uncontrollably in his friend's embrace. "Ahhh … House … this is awful. I'm scared … I'm so scared … I'm not as brave as you … I don't know if I can do this …" He was beginning to sob.

"Shhh … it's okay."

"Oh God … Ow … Ow … Ow …"

"It's okay, Jimmy … it's okay. Hang onto me … hang on!"

Gregory House had never been in a situation such as this in his life. The man in his arms was more than a suffering patient, more than a medical puzzle. House had not realized until this moment how much the safety of this human being meant to him; had _always_ meant to him. If Wilson was scared, then he was petrified! He could not lose him. No! Not now! Not without ever having told him how dear he was …

Without James in his life, there wouldn't be much left, would there? What was a career if the lifeline to that career suddenly came apart and drifted away? But he was tongue- tied. Literally at a loss to know how to say all the things he needed to say …

_Fuck!_

House sucked up his own pain and tightened his grip on Wilson's trembling shoulders. His chin rested lightly on top of Wilson's head. He closed his eyes and took a page from the book of Billy Travis: _Please, God … please … please help him!_ He sighed raggedly and buried his face in Wilson's baby-fine hair. Very lightly he kissed the top of Wilson's head and whispered again: "Hang on, Jimmy … I've got you. It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be … okay …"

Together in the silent hospital room with the lights dimmed and fast food wrappers strewn around them, they waited it out together. House did not move from his friend's side. He had turned into a slab of stone.

Fifteen minutes later he was still there, holding tightly to Wilson's pain-clenched body.

When the meds finally took hold, Wilson slid into a fitful sleep and House was left with pain of his own that tore at him with relentless fury. He lowered Wilson gently to the pillow and dragged himself to the chair. His damned leg was punishing him for not giving in to its demands, and he knew he would pay the price. _Fuck it!_ His hands went to his thigh, just above the knee, and squeezed laterally. He sighed and leaned his head back. He popped two Vicodin and waited. His eyes never left the restless face of his friend.

House levered up from the chair, finally, working his left leg under him, stabilizing himself on the cane in his right hand; push! He was up. His mind was in turmoil and his thoughts were spinning with sensations he'd never experienced before. He had to get out of there! Retreat to a neutral corner and think …

He stole another glance at Wilson, who was finally sleeping. Thank God.

House stretched his back and shoulders while his weight was still on the left side, and then touched down cautiously with the right. It was better. It had been a cramp, not going into spasm. He took a moment to throw the leftover food bags, beer cans, and paper in the trash, then made for Wilson's door.

Walking out to the nurses' station took a little longer than expected. He made it, finally; leaned onto the counter the same as he had on the way in, although the circumstances were different this time. The charge nurse walked over to where he stood.

"Are you quite all right, Dr. House?"

"I'm fine." He fired a glance at the bank of medical charts. "For your night report … Dr. Wilson had two Vicoprophen at 2:45 a.m. He was in severe pain. I need to leave a message for Dr. Lyons to have his foot checked thoroughly as soon as possible in the morning. Right now he's sleeping, but he's going to hurt again when he wakes. That's a given. Keep an eye on him. I … need to leave for awhile ..."

"Yes, Doctor. Anything else?" Her concern for his pained look was right there on the surface. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.

"No, that's all."

"Good night, Dr. House."

He turned to leave, and his leg gave way half into the turn, killing his balance and throwing him heavily to the floor. He caught himself stiff-armed on his left side, bringing a stab of pain from not only the old shoulder injury, but from the tendons in his left wrist.

"Ow! Fuck!"

The commotion brought two nurses out from around the desk and another running down the corridor from making rounds. They had him surrounded within five seconds. "Dr. House? What happened?"

They were trying to help, and he could not berate them. "I just went on my ass!" he joked angrily, trying to minimize the incident. "Sorry about the language."

"That's the least of our worries," one of the nurses shot back. "Are you hurt? Have you injured your leg?"

"No, it just gave out. Happens sometimes. Believe me, I'm fine. Only thing is, my cane's way over thataway, and I can't get up. If you would all be so kind … just lift from beneath my arms until I get my balance. I'm okay!" He did not mention his throbbing shoulder, now joined by the new extra throb in his wrist."

_What-the-fuck next?_

They did as he asked and lifted from beneath his arms. He stood slowly and waited for a moment, panting. His shirt was sweat-soaked, his brow beaded. He found that he had the shakes. Someone handed him the cane, and he leaned on it. He wondered if he could make it to the elevator. This crap was definitely getting out of hand!

House finally managed to escape the nurses' solicitousness and made his way painfully to the elevator, the parking garage and the Envoy. He had never been so relieved to see the big, pretentious vehicle as he was tonight.

_Wilson does not need to be a party to THIS!!_

He drove home and stripped. His wrist was already swollen and throbbing.

After fifteen minutes in a scalding shower, he felt almost human. He popped an extra Vicodin and wrapped his injured hand with an Ace bandage, then applied ice.

His body was one huge ache. When he finally got to bed, it was after four a.m.

He decided he _might_ show up for work tomorrow about noon.

_Might!_

Only his concern for Wilson motivated him _that_ far …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

110


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"Maybe I Should'a Stayed Home"

"Making it to work by noon" had been a stupid pronouncement; more like some asinine mental projection you made during a brain malfunction. Like fooling yourself into thinking you're going to fulfill some idiotic prophecy you tested out with the tiles on the ceiling while stoned out of your mind, but it made no sense in the morning.

Everything you'd said or thought the night before had seemed so fucking profound at the time! But now … what the hell had you been talking about?

Well, guess what! In the cool gray light of morning … or whatever time of day it was … just thinking about it made your head want to explode and your brains trickle out your ears. There were so many "buts" you could stick right there in the middle of all those great intentions, but you already knew that everything after "but" was bullshit!

Making it to work by noon was a joke, especially if you didn't wake up 'til almost one in the afternoon, and your mind was still so whacked out on your drug of choice, be it Sudafed or Industrial Strength Vocodin, that you couldn't get your eyeballs focused for another half hour after that. Shit!

Gregg guessed he just needed some sympathy here … a little understanding … for a body that wouldn't fucking listen when he told it to do something!

He was the last person in the world to want to ask for sympathy though, wasn't he? He'd chewed other people into little tiny pieces and spit them out into the hallways for wanting to be coddled like that; especially when they said: "but it hurts, Doctor … but-but-but …" right in his face!

He could tell them what "hurt" was all about! And no "buts"!

"Sympathy", my ass! The only place Gregory House would find "sympathy" was in the dictionary between "shit" and "syphilis".

House groaned. The pain that dogged at him the night before had been laying in wait for him this morning. Every muscle in his body that still worked, felt too tight inside his skin and was butting up against his bones, pushing from the inside out, seeking escape.

His bum leg told him he'd been too restless during the night, and if he didn't cut that out, it would raise royal hell. Well, it seemed he hadn't. And it was!

The hand he'd tried the "quick-fix" on with the Ace bandage and the ice bag, didn't want to move, and it was fat and puffy like a half-blown-up balloon. Chalk up two points for that one! The bandage had come loose and was trailing, and hadn't done much good at all. The Zip-loc bag with the ice in it was flat on the bed, and the wet spot beside it told him that he'd either wet the bed, or the bag had leaked.

Subtract two points!

His left shoulder, injured playing Lacrosse on a muddy field twenty-five years ago, creaked a little, but had not been reinjured, as he'd at first suspected. Small miracle. Add two points!

His ass bones still hurt from landing on the hard floor of the hospital. If he'd had some fat down there, it probably wouldn't have hurt that much, but bones and hard tile-over-concrete floors weren't very compatible. Subtract the two points!

The pain in his leg, though not excruciating, and not as bad as it had been last night, nonetheless let him know he'd been a bad boy. Again. Did he add two points for that one? Or take them away?

Every ache he chalked up before he even got out of the fucking bed, told him that he'd been the big loser. Sometimes, since the infarction, he'd discovered that it was quite possible to injure himself, simply by lying in bed the wrong way during the night.

That sucked! No points!

House got himself ready to go to work in the most cautious manner possible. Once he began to move around, some of the aches abated. He popped a Vicodin the moment his leg began a whisper of discontent, and that held off the worst of it.

His shoulder was okay again, and would remain so as long as he did not repeat the kind of shock to it that he had given it last night. His ass felt a little better too, and the kinks gradually worked out of his back and shoulders.

The only thing he could not fix was the wrenched wrist. There was dark bruising around the lateral ligaments, and he was afraid he'd stretched or torn them when he fell, and his hand had bent backward. He dropped a few more ice cubes into a fresh Zip-loc bag and Ace-bandaged it in place. He would redo it when he got to work. He could not let Cuddy latch onto this one!

When House left his apartment at 2:30 p.m., he was wearing the bright red button-down shirt. Its sleeves were long enough to hide the unacceptable!

Gregg turned off the ignition and leaned his head into the backrest of the Envoy, once again thinking of Wilson's ordeal, and his, House's, own involvement in it. He needed to call Lyons as soon as he got to his office; find out what they had deduced was causing James so much distress in his mutilated foot, and why his friend could not seem to find a measure of concentration to raise himself to a higher level where he could fix upon his own recovery.

Gregg had a feeling he knew the reason already; he was not a diagnostician for nothing, but he had no idea how to break James' obsessive attention on matters not his own.

Wilson's mind was still focused on House's pain and House's ability or inability to manage his own care. So much so that Wilson simply did not know how to let go of his concern for his friend so he could shift that concern to his own rehabilitation.

House was slowly figuring out that caring was not simply something you did when you chose; it had to be there constantly, or you were merely defeating your own purpose as a practitioner of medicine. Last night had taught him a bitter lesson. He truly cared, but there were wires crossed in his personality somehow, and he knew he would never allow himself to show the caring to others. Only Jimmy … and only at a very steep cost.

It was up to him to force James Wilson to let go of his instincts and compassion for a bitter friend, and refocus that concentration where it belonged. It had been many years since Wilson had put himself first, and Gregg had to make him turn it around.

He matters to me a lot more than I knew … 

Gregg brought himself back to the present with a jolt. He unraveled the Ace bandage and tossed the ice cubes, mostly water now, out of the bag and shook it out the window of the Envoy. He probed the swelling in his sore wrist with the fingers of his right hand. He definitely had a pulled ligament. Maybe more than one.

He would wrap it for the rest of the day and ice it again tonight. He wound the Ace about the most painful spot, over and across his knuckles and once around his thumb for stability, around the bone twice more, and tucked in the end at his palm. It was painful to flex his fingers, but that was to be expected. He reached into his left coat sleeve and pulled the long red cuff over the bandage to hide it. That would work!

House got out of his car, pressed the remote so that it "yawped" back at him, and headed for the elevator. He rode up to his office and walked in.

Nobody home. The Ducklings were all out somewhere, probably off spreading sunshine and puppy dog eyes among the great unwashed. He didn't want them around him, didn't need them around him; was relieved they were not there. He lowered himself into his chair and raised his leg onto the black stool.

He placed his left hand gingerly across his lap and looked about the surface of the desk-table. The research paper he'd been working on when all this mess took off, was there on a pile, discarded and never thought of again after Wilson's accident. Now he could finish it if he had the inclination. He did not. Instead, he picked up his phone and speed-dialed Norm Lyons.

"Norm? Gregg House. How's Wilson?"

"House? I just read the morning report. You okay?"

There was a pregnant pause: a sigh. "My tailbone hurts. Otherwise, I'm fine. What's happening with Wilson?" 

"I noticed you overmedicated the hell out of him …"

"Necessary at the time. He was in hellish pain. And did you not tell me I'd have carte blanche with his case? Would you … _please_ … tell me how he is?"

Another pause. "We had to operate on his foot again … early this morning."

"What?"

"You heard me. There was an infection starting, but we caught it in time, thanks to you. I wasn't giving you hell, Gregg. I was saying thanks. It's a small incision … shouldn't set his healing back much."

"I'm on my way up." House dropped the phone into its cradle and came as close as he

ever came to springing out of his chair, angry muscles or not. He made tracks to the third floor.

Jim Wilson was lying quietly in the bed, his head raised on a couple of pillows. He was awake, but his eyes were still a little glazed from the after effects of the anesthetic. His destroyed foot was in a fresh bandage, cushioned with layers of gauze, the entire leg raised higher than the other in the traction sling. House walked over to stand beside him and hung the cane on the railing of the bed. He brought his hand up to caress James' cheek with the backs of his fingers. "How are you?"

Wilson blinked, trying to smile. "I'll be okay. How are you? I read the morning report."

House shook his head and sighed angrily. "They might as well print the damned thing in the morning paper so everybody in town can read it!"

"House, I'm a doctor. I'm allowed. Is your leg all right?"

"My leg … is _fine!_" He stepped back a step, bit his lip with the effort not to hobble. "Look, Ma … no cane!" He spread his arms in affirmation, but cocked the right knee out of sight before it exploded.

Wilson bought it. He did not even notice the edge of Ace bandage that stuck out beyond the red cuff. "You were lucky, you jackass!"

Gregg pulled a silly Bertie-Wooster face. "Not every ungraceful move I make ends in disaster, Wilson."

"Don't make me laugh! It hurts when I laugh."

"Norm tells me they caught an infection in your foot …"

"Yeah. They did. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. Now, more of my foot is gone …" He turned on his pillow, facing toward the wall, fighting tears.

"Wilson …" House was unusually lost for words. "Grab my hand!" he said instead.

Wilson did, and House bent over him. "More of your foot is _not_ gone! They had to scrape the bone. You're all right! Trust me, Wilson. I would never lie to you!"

House went back to his office when Wilson dropped off to sleep again. Later in the evening, he did a little more work on the research paper, but typing one-handed was awkward.

After awhile he minimized the text when he found he couldn't concentrate, and pulled up Wilson's chart on the screen instead. Leg X-Rays on the right side looked very good. The right leg would most likely be as strong as it had been before the accident. The left, however, was a different breed of cat.

The left leg was mincemeat from the knee down. They already knew that. It was doubtful whether Wilson's knee would recover completely, but even if it did, movement would probably be limited. His ankle would heal, although the foot would never be right, so whatever happened with the ankle didn't even matter! Gregg stared at the pictures. Enlarged them, compared them, superimposed them. Measured and calibrated. It made no difference. Wilson's left foot was finished. Forever.

Gregg House's eyes filled with tears of angry frustration. He was powerless to do anything. The indomitable, unconquerable Gregory House was totally incapable of creating a miracle that would enable his best friend to walk again. The two of them were, from this day forward, the black and the white, the yin and the yang, the left and the right of … "crippledness".

Lisa Cuddy walked into his office at that moment and crossed to his desk, intending to find out what in hell he thought he was up to. Then she spied the X-Rays on the computer screen and knew immediately to whom they belonged, and why they were there.

House did not look up at first. He just sat, still as a statue, staring at the wall. Even the defeated slope of his shoulders provided hurtful answers to every question she could have asked. The sight of him stopped her original purpose for coming there, dead in its tracks.

"He's not going to walk again, is he?"

House looked up, finally, and met her eyes; his own were pained dark pools of misery and loss. "No, not really. The foot will never support his weight."

Cuddy moved behind his chair, stood boldly with both hands on his shoulders. Before today she would not have dared do this. His body was motionless, but she could feel him trembling off and on.

She swiveled him around, forcing his leg down from the stool. He hissed a breath, but said nothing; drew it back beneath his body under the chair. She squeezed his shoulders gently, once, then moved around to the front of him, clasped both sides of his haggard face between her palms. Bent to his forehead and kissed it tenderly. Tasted the salt of his sweat. He did not move. Did not acknowledge her actions

"I'm so sorry, House. Sorry for you … sorry for him. Sorry for all of us."

Lisa raked her fingernails back through his tangled silver-threaded hair and grasped his face yet again. Met his ravaged eyes with her own.

"When …" she asked him sternly "are you ever going to stop beating yourself up?"

Speechless, he watched her turn and walk back toward the door.

"You really should have your hand tended to. I read the morning report … and your sleeves aren't quite long enough …"

Then she was gone.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

116


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"Night Visitors"

It was a black Ford van, a throwback to the days of: "Ford Has A Better Idea". It was quiet, in good mechanical condition, and its owners were sneaky. It was nondescript and had no distinguishing marks. No bumper stickers, no decals on the windows, no junk on the dashboard and nothing hanging from the rear-view mirror. It had no dents, no scrapes, no patched paint. It was a nice van, but the paint had been left to dull on purpose. Road film layered on road film. Not shiny, not showy, and therefore not desirable to anyone seeking to steal a classic vehicle. The tires were blackwalls, older ones. No fancy, traceable tires for this baby!

At this time of night, Ridge Road was quiet and mostly deserted. A few lights were on along the eight-mile stretch, but most of the houses were dark, or dim with nightlights at a few of the windows. There were fancy cars, pickups, SUVs in the driveways of some of the dark places, their owners long in bed.

But there were three houses along here that seemed to shout: "Nobody Home!" Two of them were ranchers and the third was a beautiful Cape Cod, set back from the road at the end of a long driveway where there was a breezeway and an attached garage and a showy weeping willow in the front yard. For more than a week there had been no movement in or around there. The area light was behind the garage, and some of its candlepower diminished by the branches of a large maple tree. In the front yard, the grass was a little longer than it should have been. The red flag on the mailbox by the road had not been moved up or down in many days, but rested stuck at half-mast. There was just simply no one there.

The black van cruised slowly to the end of the road where the blacktop doglegged left to meet 206 North. It's driver backed around and turned toward the west end where the road terminated again at the turnoff with Route 206 South. Halfway back, the Cape Cod was on their left. The van's driver pulled far enough off the berm so that anyone looking would think its owner had parked it there for the night. He turned the lights and the motor both off. When the driver had last looked at his watch, the time had been 1:37 a.m. He estimated that that had been about five minutes ago. They waited, watching the house across the road for any signs of life.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregory House had remained in his office until ten p.m. The research paper was finished, sent into cyberspace and probably by now laying in hard copy on the cluttered desk of Dr. Jeffrey Geiger, M. D. He'd met Jeff Geiger at a medical convention in Chicago more than ten years ago. They'd hit it off at once because both of them instantly hated the politicking that went on, and the deals that were made in darkened hallways, which had nothing whatsoever to do with treating patients or the advancement of medicine.

They'd left the hotel together and took a taxi to one of the town's many bar-restaurants. There, they ordered steaks and Scotch on the Rocks and talked of women, medical ethics, kinky sex, women, movies, music and women.

As the two of them got drunker and drunker, the hotel's Lounge Lizard walked up on the stage and began to play. The man was even more inebriated than they were, and he played in the cracks more than on the keys. His rendition of "Stars Fell on Alabama" would have made the Ink Spots turn over in their graves with embarrassment.

Laughing, the two of them ran up on stage and removed the musician by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and placed him on the floor next to the beautiful baby grand. Jeff sat down on one side of the piano bench and Gregg on the other. Four hands on the keys, they started off with "Old Piano Roll Blues", broke into "On The Road Again", and finished with a close-harmony rendition of "Take Me Home, Country Roads".

When they got up to go back to their table, they found that the patrons wouldn't let them leave. They got clapped, hooted and whistled right back on stage, and ended up staying for three more hours, pounding out old standards, blues songs, country ballads and ending with a rip-roaring rendition of "Goodnight Irene" in which the whole place chimed in so loudly that the chandeliers and other glassware shook and jangled and vibrated.

The next day they shucked the convention entirely and took the El over to Chicago Hope Hospital where Gregg was introduced to Aaron Shutt, Jeff's colleague, and Phillip Watters, the hospital's administrator.

That afternoon, House was invited to scrub in to assist while Jeff did some of the most beautiful cardiac work he'd ever seen by transplanting a tiny heart into a baby girl. Even as they stood and watched, the infant's face went from gray to white to healthy pink, and Gregg realized that he'd just become friends with a genius. If there were innovations to be made in heart surgery, it was Jeffrey Geiger who made them. Gregg learned later that Jeffrey had adopted Alicia, the little girl whose life he'd saved.

They had kept in touch up until Gregg's leg infarction, but after that he had been too lethargic to care, and their correspondence dropped off the face of the earth. Now he had researched all the data he could find on the case of the female CEO whose heart problem he had diagnosed through her bout with bulimia. He'd written it up, researched all the data he could find on the subject, and sent it off to Chicago Hope, Cook County, Illinois.

He'd even written a note:

"Hey Jeff! It's your old Lounge Lizard buddy! Sorry for the delay in

correspondence. Maybe someday I'll tell you the real reason I stopped

writing. Cheers! Gregg House."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg glanced at his watch. Eleven p.m. It was time to go to Wilson. He dreaded seeing his friend in pain and being unable to do anything to bring him relief. Being powerless and frightened were two things that pressed on House's heart the heaviest. They were the two things that made him feel the most impotent.

Next to those unwelcome emotions, the problems with his leg ran a distant third where Jimmy Wilson was concerned. As he'd told Julie a few weeks back, Jimmy was his friend, and he loved him. He had cried when he'd seen him in such pain. He also knew he obsessed too much lately about the rotten thing which had befallen this gentle man. He'd been over it and over it, thought about it too much and worried about it too often.

"Our first tears are always for ourselves". The old cliché spun inside his head day and night, and it called him a coward. And he was. Jesus, how he hated clichés!

But now he must go to James. He had put it off long enough. His friend would soon be wondering where he was, and worrying. It was time!

Gregg stood up stiffly and carefully. He had not propped his leg up again after Cuddy left. Damn her devious poking around! But she cared … she cared …and her warm embrace had been kind of nice. His leg hurt again; full of pins and needles. He unwound the bandage from his sore wrist, flexed his fingers. They hurt too, but not as bad as before. James certainly didn't need to see that!

He stood up and started for the door.

_Why the hell do things have to be so damn complicated?_

Out of the protective wrap, his wrist began to throb again.

_Fuck!_

He got on the elevator, rode it up a floor. Got off. The same three nurses who were there last night were there again. They looked up and saw him, their eyes like deer in the headlights. He walked over and leaned on the counter … like before.

"You guys squealed on me!" he accused in a menacing voice.

Their eyes went wider, but the charge nurse wasn't having any. "Hospital protocol, Doctor. We report _everything!"_

Gregg nodded, lowered his gaze. "I know. I've been hearing about it all day. You were doing your jobs." He looked down at the bank of charts. "Is he awake?"

"Yes."

"Last meds?"

"An hour ago. He's back on fifty per-cent morphine drip. His leg pain flared up after the follow-up surgery on his foot this morning. He'll be glad to see you. Dr. Lyons was here about seven … told him they could soon place his legs in casts … get him up in a wheelchair … it hurts him when we have to turn him to change the bed or rub his back so he doesn't get bed sores.

"I hate to hurt him … he's such a darling … but we have to. I'll be so glad when he can get out of that room. So will he."

Gregg listened closely to her words, then nodded agreement. "So will I! Trust me!" He turned, about to walk away.

She called him back and he paused. "Dr. House?"

"Umm?"

"Bill Travis called awhile ago. He said to tell you he's bringing coffee for you after his shift … about 11:15."

"That's good news. It's almost that now. Thanks. I think we could use some."

"You're welcome, Doctor. Does your leg seem more stable tonight?"

Gregg sighed. Closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

_I will be so freakin' glad when the condition of my anatomy doesn't stick its nose into every damn conversation!_

"Yup," he said politely. "It's fine." He continued down the hallway, sorely tempted to play up the limp … just a little.

He paused in the doorway of Wilson's room, reaching out instinctively to touch the doorframe with his open hand. "Ow!" He spat a curse into the air before he could stop it.

James looked up quickly. "House?"

"Never mind … thumped my crazy bone …"

"You are full of such crap, House! Your knee is locked. Your ankle's turning."

_Fuck!_

"Yeah? So?"

"Come sit down. Did Carol tell you Billy's bringing coffee later?"

"Yeah. Do you know all the nurses by name now?"

"Most of them."

"Hmmm … one of them might be the next 'Mrs. Wilson'."

"Not in a million years, House! I'm finished with that."

"Same thing you said last time, if you recall." He walked further into the room and aimed for the chair.

"I'm a little more … 'used up' … this time." There was a faint sparkle of amusement in the dark eyes.

"Yeah … well … in your case a bum foot hardly matters. As long as you've got that sweet, wounded-puppy face, the women'll be lining up from two blocks away!" House lowered himself into the chair, being careful not to place any strain on his left hand. It ached in perfect harmony with the leg. He stretched his leg out as far as he could make it reach.

"It matters to me."

"Are we having a pity party now?"

Wilson frowned. "Nah …won't be a real party 'til Billy gets here with the refreshments!"

Their snark-filled conversation was halted abruptly by a clamor in the hallway. A tall, dark body in service whites, preceded by a stainless steel teacart, appeared in the doorway to Wilson's room. "This must be da place," Billy said. He swung the cart around and came in with it. There was a carafe of coffee, sugar packs, creamers and three cups. A white paper bag certainly contained cookies or doughnuts or something equally decadent. Three saucers were stacked neatly beside the bag. "Who would like coffee and a filled doughnut?" He did not need an answer.

Billy's sharp eyes and instinct for anything out of the ordinary picked up instantly when Gregg seemed to be going out of his way to avoid using his left hand. Billy knew about Gregg's weak shoulder, and he studied the man's position in the chair. The shoulder seemed loose, unimpaired. Gregg had no trouble bending his elbow.

His hand? Billy could not see beneath the long, red shirt cuff. Gregg never buttoned his cuffs. Said it felt like somebody was trying to tie his hands; his arms were too long for store-bought cuffs to be comfortable. Billy let it go awhile as they talked and drank coffee and munched on the doughnuts.

Wilson didn't seem to notice anything unusual. Normally, he picked up on things like that a lot faster than Billy did, but today he mostly sat and listened. Billy figured he was dealing with his own pain.

He looked at the morphine drip, knowing Jimmy had had follow-up foot surgery early that morning. The drug was set at about fifty per cent. Jimmy might be about due for a couple Vicoprophin.

Travis broke into what House was saying about staying at Wilson's place tonight, checking up on the property, hiring someone to mow the lawn and do the trimming …

"Hey Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"You think we could give Jim two of his pills? He looks a little shaky."

House turned back to peer into Wilson's face. Billy was right. His friend looked ghostly. "You ready for meds?" He asked.

"Yeah, I think so …" Wilson's voice trailed off.

Gregg shifted his weight to fish around in his left jacket pocket. Stopped abruptly and withdrew his hand, grunting in pain. "Get it out, willya, Billy … I've got a cramp in my shoulder …"

Travis was not fooled. "Sure, Gregg." He dipped into the pocket and pulled out the vial of pills. Took two into his palm, handed them to Wilson and replaced the vial. Wilson took them dry and fell back on the pillows.

"Let me see your hand, man," he said softly to House.

"What?"

"Gregg, dammit. Gimmie!"

Reluctantly, House extended his arm across the intervening space and Billy took his hand tenderly between sensitive fingers. "Blew a ligament when you went on your ass last night, didn't ya, Boss?"

"I think so. Probably. Feels like it."

From the bed, Wilson had heard part of the conversation. He was losing his battle with consciousness between the meds and the morphine, but he still knew enough to be worried. "House … ?"

Billy placed Gregg's hand back in his lap for a moment and went to Jim's side. He ruffled around in the moppy auburn hair, tousled it gently between his fingers. "Go to sleep, Jimbo," he said softly. "It's fine. Sleep now, man. Go to sleep."

Wilson's eyes closed as he drifted off, his breathing evening out.

Billy stepped back and gathered House's hand into his own once more. "Like I said, Gregg, I think you blew a ligament. That's the same hand you whacked with the pestle a couple of months ago, isn't it?"

House sighed. "Yeah."

"You still goin' out to Jimmy's place tonight?"

"Yeah, I figured on it. Haven't been out since Jule left. Need to check things out …find somebody to mow and trim."

"So let me wrap this first, okay? Ice it when you get over there."

"Yeah, go ahead. It's a little sore. I was going to ice it anyway.

Billy stood up. "Be right back." He left the room, turned right in the direction of the supply closet. Was back before a minute was up. "Get that damn shirt sleeve out of the way!" He said.

Travis wrapped House's wrist with a two-incher Ace: figure eight, then across the palm and around the thumb. And again. Snug, but not too tight. He anchored it with metal clips and checked it to be sure they wouldn't work loose. "That should help," he said.

Gregg tried to flex his fingers, but the bandage held them rigid. "Thanks."

"I aim to please," Billy answered. "Be more careful next time. You're such a Klutz!"

They finished the coffee themselves and waited until Wilson was sound asleep before they went their separate ways.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

They'd been sitting in the darkened van for the better part of an hour. "Whaddaya think, Pop?" Junior Bardo asked his father. "Looks to me like this is gonna be a good night." Not only did nothing move inside the Cape Cod, but only three cars had passed on the road in that amount of time. "You ready to get us into the garage?"

"Yeah … just thinkin' about that. Should take me … ohhh … five minutes or so to get the garage door up. Pull 'er in as close to the right side as you can get. We'll prob'ly need extra space to get stuff into the van. Right? Oh … an' you put the ramps in before we left the house?"

"Right … in case they got a snowmobile or a lawn tractor, right?"

"You got it, kiddo … okay … here I go. Watch close!" The older man opened the van's passenger door and climbed out slowly. His dark clothing made him nearly invisible in the middle of the road, and his figure was nothing more than a dark shadow moving up the driveway toward the garage.

Rico Bardo ran straight to the back door, drew a pair of small pliers from a back pocket and smashed the little pane of glass closest to the door's fancy latch handle. He pocketed the pliers again and reached inside to turn the lock to "open". He picked up the largest

chunks of glass, piled them between thumb and fingers of leather-gloved hands and took them around the corner of the house to drop them in the bushes. Gaining further access was incredibly easy. The kitchen door was not even locked. Rico tried the doorknob and it turned smoothly. They would not need a light until later, but the area light from the back yard threw enough illumination in the window over the sink that they might not even need one. If this were the case in the living room and the bedrooms upstairs, then this job would be a shoo-in.

Rico made his way to the breezeway door at the opposite end of the kitchen and tried it. Unlocked, same as the other one. There were storage boxes stacked neatly against the walls on the left side. No time to check them now, but perhaps later, after the other valuables had been taken care of. The breezeway door at the other end opened directly into the garage. Bardo flipped on an overhead light and looked around. There was a workbench across the empty bay with a treasure trove of salable articles on and around it, plus a large Cub Cadet lawn tractor. Beneath the cabinets at the work bench, a small

florescent light hung on the wall. Rico went to it and flipped the switch. The light winked on. He went back to the overhead light and switched it off. The smaller one provided plenty of light to do their work by. The inside garage door switch was beside

the door, and he flipped that. The door trundled slowly upward and he immediately heard the engine of the black van start up.

Junior pulled the van inside as far as it would go, keeping close to the east wall, then shut off the motor. The men opened the cargo doors at the rear and driver's side of the van, exposing the large empty interior. They placed the aluminum ramps at the rear of the van and quickly put their shoulders to the big Cub Cadet, rolled it inside, threw the ramps in beside it, then lowered the garage door. What could be easier? They loaded power tools, two bicycles, skis, ladders, a Puch Moped and a Jet Ski before passing on what was left and moving toward the kitchen.

"Shall I turn the light off under the tool cabinet?" Junior asked.

"Nah … too dim to see from the road. C'mon, let's go!" They walked into the kitchen, leaving the door hanging open behind them.

They loaded everything they could find from the kitchen and living room, then headed up the stairs to the bedrooms.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg got in the Envoy and headed north on 206. He drove carefully, not hurrying. It was late and he was tired. But then it seemed that no matter how he played it, it was always late and he was always tired. He turned off the main highway and headed out Ridge Road. The digital clock on the dashboard read three o'clock in the morning. God! He was getting his days and nights turned around.

House pulled into the driveway of the Cape Cod. Parked in front of the garage door and switched on the power to the platform which would lower him to the ground. Now that he was out and about, his stiff muscles began to loosen a bit and he felt a little less like an eighty-year-old. He retracted the platform and stood gazing into the night sky for a moment, enjoying the smells of spring.

Orion had fallen below the horizon by this time of the year, but Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper stood out brightly from the haloed mists of the Milky Way. He drew great draughts of the fresh air and leaned into the Envoy's front fender. Off to his left he could hear the pleasant peals of the pair of wind chimes James had hung from the weeping willow tree when he and his first wife had bought the place. It brought back pleasant memories of himself and James together out here on weekends when whatever-wife Jim had at the time wasn't there. They would pull lawn chairs out under the tree and sit there shooting the breeze about music, sports, work, sex … and guzzling generous amounts of Coors Light. They hadn't done that in a long long time, and until this moment, Gregg hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. How much he'd missed Wilson in this setting. Laughing, appreciating each other, and believing it would never end.

He straightened and looked around, letting those melancholy memories from another day fade slowly away from him. Something reflecting off the front bumper of the big SUV caught his eye and he turned toward it. He frowned, squinted. At the very bottom of the garage door where the metal met the concrete, a sliver of light spread all the way across the expanse. There was a light on in there. Had Julie left it on? He doubted it. She was usually very meticulous about details. He peered closer. He wasn't seeing things.

Cautiously, House locked his car manually and moved over to the back porch steps. He hated steps. It was extremely difficult for him to do them. No matter how he attempted them, they always did a number on his bum leg and left him weak and in pain. Every time he'd come out here with James, his friend had always lifted his weight by grasping him about the waist, providing a human crutch so the wasted muscles in his right leg would not have to push upward. When he'd been out here a few weeks ago, he'd hopped up doggie-style, using his left leg and the leverage of both hands. Now, however, his wrist would be next to useless.

He had to figure out another way and still be quiet enough not to alarm anyone who might be rummaging around inside the house. He placed the bad foot one step up, using the cane as leverage and crept upward. It was slow going, and painful. Three steps to go. One at a time. He made it with better results than he'd expected. Panting with exertion, but still on his feet. The cane was still in a death grip in his right hand. He stood for a moment, catching his breath

_You're an old man, House!_

He could hear no movement from inside, but a carpeted house did not make very good echoes. He tried the back door. Of course it was unlocked. Cautiously he moved into the dim kitchen, pinned himself against the wall next to the door. Light from the arc lamp out back defined all the sharp edges and made deep pockets of shadows. But it was enough to tell the room had been ransacked. The microwave was missing; the wine cooler which he had planned to raid tonight. Gone. There was a dark spot on the floor where it had been. Even the expensive cookware was missing from its wrought iron ceiling rack.

_Son of a bitch!_

Then Gregg heard footsteps. Coming down the stairs. He had not been up there in a long time. Too much trouble. He'd always bunked on the couch in recent years, but even that had been a long time ago. The fifth step from the bottom creaked like hell. He heard it creak twice. Two of them! He tensed. They were headed for the kitchen. He could not see them yet. Nothing but a movement of more shadow pockets.

Then they were coming through the doorway into the space directly across from him. They would have to walk around the table and chairs. One large. Youngish. One slightly smaller. Older. Father and son? Dark hair. Round faces. A little too fat. Tattoo on the older one's forearm. Too dark to tell what it was.

Gregory House's accumulated load of adrenaline hit his brain like the bat hits the ball: "Ker-Whop!" He stepped into the room with his cane in his right hand, raised above his head. "Stop right there!"

The older one was behind the younger one, an antique rifle in each hand. They had been James' Grandfather's and hadn't been fired in fifty years. The man dropped the one in his left hand and it clattered to the floor. He lifted the other one in instinctive defense, the same way Gregg had done with the cane. "What the fuck???"

The younger one was in front, carrying a TV-VCR combo in both hands. It had been in the guest room, and Gregg remembered it fondly. It had scrolled a LOT of silly porn tapes through it in its day, bootlegged movies that had him and James in stitches as they sat on the floor gobbling chips and guzzling beer far into the wee hours. These assholes were stealing their Goddamn "porta-porn" TV!

The young one heard Gregg's "stop right there!" and it startled him to the point of fumbling the TV out of his arms and smashing it on the floor by the refrigerator, glass and parts flying against the bottoms of the cabinets in a rain of electronics.

Gregg's expression was murderous. "You fucking asshole!"

He stepped forward, but now they were over their shock and were ready for him. The young one came at him and he pushed the galoot back in a crash of table and chairs. After him came his old man; head down, old rifle in both hands, butting like a bulldog. Gregg sidestepped, hopping on his good leg and brought the cane down hard across the man's broad back. There was a grunt and the rifle dropped, but the old fart wasn't hurt much. He butted backward a few steps and came at Gregg again.

House felt the shoulder slam into his legs, trapping them both, and he was going down on the bad right side. He tried to twist away, but that only made it worse. The bad leg was getting most of the mauling and the pain mounted until he screamed. The old guy thought it was a howl of anger and his arms loosened a fraction in alarm. Gregg saw his opportunity, and with an eye to the younger one approaching him from the opposite side, slammed his cane into the junction of Daddy's neck and shoulder. The arms relaxed and Daddy sat down hard on the floor.

Baby Huey was on the other side of the table, sidestepping around the chairs, still standing and waving the captain's chair in Gregg's direction. Gregg saw it coming and made a dive under the table, grabbed another chair by the rungs and flung it backward into Baby Huey's groin. He heard a pained grunt and was gratified by the sound of the captain's chair crashing, but somewhere he had dropped his cane. If he didn't find it, he was screwed. His fucked-up wrist was on fire, Billy's bandage coming loose and falling away, but he didn't have time to remove it all the way. Baby Huey was coming after him again, and on the other side of the room, Big Daddy was staggering to his feet, getting ready for another round.

After less than five minutes into the fray, Gregg House was already tiring. His body just could not take it anymore; he had suspected it for a long time. He felt a dampness on his cheek and reached up to touch it. His fingers came away bloodied. It gave him renewed determination. He wiggled around on his belly until he could grasp the rungs of the last chair standing, then waited for a pair of legs to come close enough for him to hurt them. Bad! The way his had been hurt!

It was suddenly quiet. All movement in the kitchen came to a standstill. The short hairs came up at the back of Gregg's neck, straining to hear. It remained silent. He moved his head slowly from side to side, looking for shadows shifting on the floor, straining to hear any tiny movement. It was so quiet he could hear the wind chimes in the willow tree. He waited.

When they made their move, he was not quite prepared, but he had to deal with it. They rounded in behind him before he could slide out of their way. Each of them grabbed one of his legs and slid him roughly out from under the table. His crippled leg screamed in agony, but he bit down on his lip and muffled the cry. As his body came out into the open, the heel of his right hand brushed over the head of the cane and he grasped it roughly. He was on his stomach, but attempting to twist around to look up at the two of them grinning down at him.

He grasped the cane tip tightly in his hand. Its curled grip was still hidden under the table, and he let it remain hidden, trying to plan a strategy. He could tell by their faces that he didn't have much time. There was blood welling on the sleeve of his shirt and he did not know where it was coming from. He glanced to his left and saw a shard of glass from the broken TV screen. It had blood on it, and he knew he had been dragged into it or over it, somehow cutting his arm in the process. He needed to grab it, but did not know if the fingers of his left hand were strong enough to bend that far. He held his breath and reached for it, trailing the length of dirty bandage in its wake.

Above him, the two men were enjoying his helplessness, somehow knowing instinctively that there was a weakness about him, but still unsure exactly what it was. They had the upper hand, and were very much in control of the situation. Baby Huey leaned down and looked at the tattered layer of Ace bandage. "Hurt yer arm, huh, Punkin'?" he snarled derisively. "Well aint that too fuckin' bad! By the time I'm finished with ya, that aint all that's gonna hurt!"

Gregg concealed the glass shard beneath his injured hand and stared at his torturer. "You're all mouth, aren't you?" He shot back, knowing he was taking his life in his own hands. "All volume and no control … Sweety! Your Daddy didn't teach you much in the way of manners, did he?"

The big one snarled deep in his throat. "You … _fucker!_" He lunged for Gregg's throat while his father stood and smiled in a perverted parody of pride.

It was his only chance. Gregg curled painfully into a fetal position as the big body came down, straight at him, then twisted away again, brought his hurt hand up and around with the glass still in it and slashed downward, connecting with the thin layer of black tee shirt covering the fleshy chest and belly. The glass went through the tee shirt and cut into the skin, all the way down the full length of the Giant's torso, too shallow to do much damage, but quite enough to instill the fear of God. Baby Huey went over backward with a painful howl, curled onto his side and did not move.

Behind him, Big Daddy threw himself on top of Gregg with a homicidal bellow and a stink of breath that would have stopped a camel. Already exhausted and wracked with pain, Gregg House felt his leg absorb even more punishment. If he didn't do something fast, this man would probably kill him.

An irrational thought struck him like summer lightning: encompassing his world in a flash of quicksilver.

_Who will take care of Wilson?_

He slithered to the right and took a swing. His cane glanced off the back of Big Daddy's greasy head. He thought he might have put a permanent dent there. He brought the lame hand around in front of him and wrapped the trailing length of bandage around the man's neck until it ran out, then pulled with all his strength. There came a gurgling and choking and other sounds of strangulation until finally the man's body collapsed across his legs, pinning them until he screamed in pain.

In the corner near the refrigerator, Baby Huey pushed himself to his feet in a panic. He stared down at his father's limp body for a moment with a look of astonishment. The tall, gaunt giant was hauling back with a long black stick that was aimed at his head. He swayed for a moment in indecision, then hugged a thick arm about the cut that bloodied his chest and gut, and staggered toward the back door.

He paused once to stare again at the destroyed kitchen, broken chairs, broken glass and plastic. He regarded his father a few seconds longer, and finally Gregory House. There was a look of something intensely rodent-like on his fat face as he saw the intense dark countenance filled with a murderous fury. Then he slammed out the back door, across the porch and down the back steps.

Gregg's leg was a swollen lump of agony and he hadn't the strength to roll the unconscious man off him. In the quiet of the night, he heard something outside, striking something else that resisted, then finally broke. Safety glass! He heard the alarm go off inside the Envoy. He heard the thump of the big car's door, and the clunk of the gearshift being yanked out of gear. He heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway as the big tires began to roll backward. He heard the garage door trundle upward and another vehicle start up. He heard it roar out of the garage, back down the driveway and screech tires in the direction of Princeton.

"Ford engine," he mumbled to himself. "Sounds just like Jimmy's F-150 used to!"

_Used to!_

He finally found the strength to roll Big Daddy off him, but the fat man wasn't going anywhere soon. Gregg held the filthy Ace bandage tightly around the moron's neck. Insurance!

Gregg could not get up. His leg and his hand were both screaming and his Vicodin was in the Envoy … which was probably down by the mailbox at the edge of the road … if not on top of it.

A half-hour later, paramedics arrived. A police car pulled in on the heels of the ambulance whose crew was already loading Gregg House's abused body onto a gurney.

A neighbor on his way to work early had spotted the Envoy in the middle of the road, all its lights on and blinking, its alarm shrieking. The man had looked inside and saw the handicap controls, the broken window, an MD identification on the steering column, and had wasted no time calling 911.

Rico Bardo was especially meek when brought out of the house by a pair of Jersey State Troopers. Bardo looked across at Gregg on the stretcher and scowled angrily. "Sonnovabitch! We got our fuckin' asses beat by a Goddamn crip!"

The cop holding onto the handcuffs grinned and winked at the guy on the stretcher.

Gregg looked up and smiled at Rico sweetly, even as he was being loaded into the ambulance. The cop shook his head and tucked his prisoner into the back of the cruiser.

At the side of the gurney, a tall, muscular African American with long cornrows and a pained expression on his face was berating his patient. "Jesus Christ, Boss … what the hell am I ever gonna do with you?"

The answer came back faintly. "Shoot me?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"Two of Them"

He'd been very polite.

Very close-mouthed through the preliminary examination!

He had been carried out of the ambulance on the collapsible stretcher he'd been strapped into for transport to the hospital, and he had sweated his balls off under the itchy wool blanket they'd wrapped him in. He'd laid there glaring up at Billy Travis who sat beside him on the ride, taking his vitals and averting his attention in a concentrated effort not to smile.

He'd sat quietly and painfully in the wheelchair they'd lifted him into from the stretcher. He had not uttered a word of complaint when they stripped him down to his bare essentials to cleanse his cuts and bruises and stitch up the gash on his left forearm … as though the hurt wrist wasn't enough!

They used little butterfly clamps to close the cut on his cheek, and the iodine solution they used on the other abrasions made him look and feel somewhat like a giraffe.

Now he sat on a gurney in an examination room, clad in paper underwear and paper slippers, topped by a thin cotton hospital gown.

His bum leg, stretched out before him, hurt so badly he wanted to cry. When he'd tried to move it he'd almost fainted, and he knew it was in his best interests to sit still until someone came around to check it.

The injured wrist had been hurt again and was worse now than it was before and nearly as painful as the leg. He had visions of his arm in a sling for weeks, but he hoped-to-hell not! This was all so-o-o not fair!

He was sore and aching from the beating he had taken and wanted nothing more than to go to bed and stay there for at least a week. He was getting a little light headed and he wished they would come and do whatever they were going to do and get it over with. He would have given anything he owned just for a Vicodin and/or a glass of Scotch.

Billy Travis was not there. He'd asked Billy to call the Buick-Cadillac-GMC dealer and have the Envoy towed to the garage so it could be repaired, and he supposed that's where Billy was right now.

His leg went into spasm just as one of Norm Lyons' minions walked through the door to tend to him. He grabbed at his thigh before he got knocked off the gurney by the damn shaking, and the damaged wrist shot waves of pain up his arm in retribution for not remembering fast enough that it wasn't working either!

The young doctor grabbed him by the shoulders and eased him onto his back, then bent his own body over the trembling limb, closed both elbows into the knee and held his hands just above the shin bone; not touching; just containing the violence until it stilled on its own.

"There, that should do it. Easy, Dr. House. I'm Dr. Chavez. I've got you!"

_Wilson's words!_

"Try to relax … close your eyes and let it ease off …"

He did as requested and ended up panting and spent from the pain. A hypodermic needle appeared out of nowhere. A jab to his ass and done. "Muscle relaxant," the young doctor explained. "Dantrium. Try to lie still 'til it takes hold."

It didn't take long. In a few minutes he was floating, and his world was closing in rather pleasantly.

_Muscle relaxant my ass! More in there than just a re …_

It was the last he knew for another hour.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregory House let his consciousness float up from wherever it had been cruising in La La Land and stared up at the white ceiling tiles. He was lying flat, stretched out on the same gurney he'd been on awhile ago. The familiar ache was back gnawing at his leg again, but its severity was, thankfully, diminished.

His left hand was braced and Ace bandaged, and caused no added distress. It had been placed in a sling, just as he'd been dreading, and was resting across his chest, causing him to think he was probably supposed to keep it elevated. He sighed. He was hungry as hell and he had to piss. He tried to move into a more comfortable position and quickly found it to be impossible. He could not move his leg. God!

He was going to end up in a hospital bed this time, with injuries progressively worse than a few nights before when he'd fallen on his ass in the corridor.

"What the … ?"

The curtain around his cubicle snicked back out of the way and Billy Travis stood before him with his hands on his hips. "Well, 'Rocky Balboa'," he said sarcastically, "what do you do for an encore?"

Gregg snarked a face at the man, but continued to reach downward to find out why he could not move. His hand was just about to grab a healthy gob of sheet and toss it back, but Billy reached down to stay his hand. "Whoa there, man!" He said with a grin. "You don't wanna do that!"

"Why?"

"Well … not if you don't wanna take pictures of the whole damn ward. All you got on is little paper panties …"

"What did they do to my leg?"

"It's in a brace, that's all. You banged it up pretty good, y'know."

House grunted and threw back the sheet anyway. "Screw that! Wasn't me that banged it up!"

His aim was good. All he uncovered was the leg. There was a surgical stocking that reached from his swollen foot, almost to his hip. Cinched up on top of that was one of those Godawful metal-and-Velcro braces that would poke him in the crotch and deny any semblance of propriety or comfort. "Now how the hell am I supposed to walk in this damned thing?"

Billy snorted and frowned. "I'd just like to see you try to walk on that leg right now! You'd be on your ass before you got your feet on the floor. Didn't you hear me tell you that it was banged up some?"

"Yeah, I heard you, but it's been banged up since Christ made Corporeal! That's nothin' new. Did you check on my car? And how am I supposed to go to the head?"

"Your car's in the shop, so shut up about that! And I'll _take_ you to the head! That's how! You'll ride a wheelchair, and this time I'll lift your scrawny ass and pull down your panties for you and hold your hand while you pee. You can _not_, under any circumstances, bear weight. I saw what those bastards did to you, and it aint nice."

"Shit!"

"So, if you gotta go, say so, and we'll do it now. If you don't listen to me, I'll kick your butt while you aint got no clothes on!"

Gregg sighed. "Let's go then! I gotta go!"

Billy was as good as his word. He lifted Gregg into the wheelchair and got him to the rest room. He cut through the paper underwear with surgical scissors while Gregg groused about watching out what the hell he was snipping off down there … and sat him gently on the toilet. When he'd finished, Billy handed him a sterile towlette and reached back to flush the john. He washed his own hands, rummaged around and found a hospital bathrobe, then helped Gregg into it. He wheeled him back out to the nurse's station and put on the brakes while he checked for Gregg's room assignment.

"You mean I gotta stay here overnight?"

"Hell yes! You sure can't go home. You can't walk and you can't use crutches, so it looks like you're stuck here awhile."

"Does Wilson know what happened? Does he know his house was trashed?"

"Yeah, Cuddy told him."

"Does he know about … ?" He swept his hand in a circle to indicate his position in the wheelchair and his battered body … "this??"

"Yeah, Boss. He knows. He took it rough."

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah, sure … but how would you feel if you found out your best friend got beat to hell inside your own house?"

Gregg stared at Billy, his expression darkening. "Then tell somebody to put an extra bed in Wilson's room. I'll be staying with him. Besides, the night nurses up there probably won't be surprised to see me!"

Billy frowned, then grinned. Yeah! Carol and Diane would probably have a field day over this!

"Whatever. Let me make a call …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

They rode up in the elevator. Billy had gone to the locker room to retrieve underwear, socks and an old grey sweat suit from Gregg's locker, and now House looked somewhat presentable, if not exactly healthy. He had absolutely refused to don another hospital gown, so someone had cut the right leg off the sweat pants and the left cuff off the shirt. On the way from the elevator, Billy told him of being stopped by Eric Foreman in the hallway, asking about his boss' condition.

Billy had told him the story as he knew it, informing Eric that his "boss" was a man with guts, if not much common sense, and he'd rid the streets of a couple more assholes. Foreman had grinned, shaken his head in amazement and disappeared again down the hallway.

He reminded Gregg that the Envoy would probably be repaired by tomorrow, so he would also pick it up and return it to East Side Drive. Oh yeah … and he could expect to have a visit from the police tomorrow.

The only response he got to that information was a surly: "Ahhh … shit!"

Wilson was waiting for them. He was sitting a little straighter in the bed and watching the doorway. Someone had already put an extra bed in there and made it up with fresh linens. There was an extra visitors' chair and another wheeled table with a water carafe and two glasses.

Billy rolled the wheelchair inside and pushed it straight over to the side of Wilson's bed.

Gregg looked into his friend's worried face, not quite smiling. The "giraffe" look persisted. "C'mon, Wilson, knock off the wounded-puppy face. I'm immune to it anyway. I'm fine! And you should see the other guy!"

"That's not funny, House!"

"Sure it is. What's really sad is your house. Looks like somebody bombed your kitchen."

"That's not funny, House!" James repeated a little louder.

"Sure it is. The cops already have one of the idiots in custody, and it's only a matter of time 'til they nab the other one and you get all your stuff back. Hell, I'm okay. I was just getting a little jealous over all the attention you've been getting, so I thought I'd do something heroic and get some of that attention myself!"

Wilson gave up and broke into a shy smile. "House … you are _such_ a jackass!"

"Thanks. Your confidence makes me wanna go buy a saddle!"

Billy picked Gregg up bodily and carried him to the bed. Lowered him gently against the pillows and raised the head of the mattress. He placed an extra pillow beneath House's leg and gauged his reactions as he moved the brace a bit to position it.

His friend's breath hissed between his teeth, but he quickly covered it with a sigh. Billy messed with the injured arm and straightened the sling. Gregg did not react, just sat looking across at Wilson while Wilson looked across at him. Billy poured a glass of cold water and handed it to House who drank it down greedily without stopping.

Billy finally finished up and stood back. "Okay … I guess you're all set. I'm gonna get out of here … got work to do. Can't be lollygagging up here all day with the likes of you two! I'll call the cafeteria and have Josie send you something to eat. Maybe she can scare up some pizza … if I know Josie." He tossed a sloppy salute to the two of them and turned around.

"Billy!"

He stopped and turned. "What, Boss?"

The blue eyes were throwing sparks. "Thanks," Gregg said.

Billy grinned. "Any day of the week, my friend. Later!"

"For everything!"

Billy looked back.

They had spoken together, and were both grinning.

Billy decided the day hadn't been _all_ bad.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

134


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"WHANKED!"

The real pain from the aftermath of the beating didn't hit until he woke up on the second morning. All his muscles were locked in "park", but the ignition was still on and the motor was racing with the choke pulled most of the way out. Every nerve, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, was whining, reminding him of a gas pedal stuck all the way to the floor, and there was a rhythmic beat going on between his ears that rocked him hard: a busted cylinder trying to break through an engine block

The inside of his mouth hurt everywhere his tongue touched it, and otherwise tasted as though it was full of feathers rolled around in liquid metal. Even his teeth ached. His neck cramped when he tried to turn his head on the pillow. His face did not want him to change expressions, his shoulders burned all the way down to his fingertips, and his ribcage felt as though it had been locked in a vise.

All this, and he had not yet tested what his wrist or his leg might do if he tried to move either one of them. The only things he could still control without experiencing a world of hurt were his eyeballs: windshield wipers, back and forth. Air conditioner vents, up and down.

He exercised those as he became aware of a rustle of movement from the next bed.

Wilson's eyes were locked on his face from across the space that separated them, and his friend's expression radiated a need to speak to him, though reluctant to disturb his sleep. House turned his full attention and his head in that direction, unable to contain a wince as he did so. "Wilson? What's going on?"

Two orderlies were disconnecting James' IVs, pulling up and locking the sides of his bed, pushing both visitors' chairs out of the way and rolling the wheeled table back against the wall.

"They're going to put my casts on," Wilson said. "House, are you all right? You were restless in your sleep last night."

There he was again … always the Mother Hen … never thinking of himself. More concerned about the jerk in the bed opposite him! House would have shaken his head in exasperation if he could have done so without his brains rattling around like lug nuts in a hubcap.

"Hey!" He said, "Go for it! I'm fine. Get your mind off me and concentrate on what's good for you! I'm just gonna kick back and enjoy a few days off clinic duty. Go get fixed up, and when you get back, maybe we can play racquetball in the halls."

Wilson smiled at the sarcasm, but he was not fooled. Gregg was minimizing his injuries. "Okay," he teased, "you've got a deal."

Then they wheeled him out of there, out of their room and around the corner. Gone.

House could not bear to think of what his friend might look like when they brought him back: both legs encased in plaster all the way to his ass, his wrist and hand covered with more plaster.

What about his vulnerable foot? It was barely into recovery from the follow-up surgery and could not possibly be safely casted yet … could it?

This was not within Gregg's field of specialty, but he figured he knew enough about it to take an educated guess. Within a week of applying the permanent casts, Wilson would be whisked away to the hospital's physical rehab center all the way across town for God-knew-how-long, and they would probably be out of touch for weeks on end. Gregg did not think he would like that. He put his devious mind to work on the problem, but gradually his banged-up body absolutely refused him anything other than that he sleep.

So he did.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When Wilson came back from having the casts applied, he was a little subdued, a little tired, and hurting a lot. House was sitting up a bit straighter. Someone had obviously raised the head end of his bed for him. James also was sitting straighter, and there was a pillow behind his back in an attempt to ease his sore muscles.

The two men did not speak at first, but rather waited until the bustling of the nurses and orderlies was completed, and the room returned to normal. They had each been asked if they needed anything. Both shook their heads "no", and the entourage left. It was almost time for lunch.

Gregory House studied James Wilson's snowy white casts with professional interest. They were less imposing than he had imagined. "How you doing, Buckaroo?" He asked under his breath, and then watched for a reaction.

There was a faint smile in return; just enough to bring out Wilson's dimples, but the smile had a painful edge to it. "There've been times when I've felt a lot better …"

"What's wrong?" House's tone came out a bit sharper than he'd intended.

"It hurts," the younger man said. "A lot. They were really rough, and they bent my foot back and forth 'til I thought I'd be hanging from the ceiling."

"They were checking for scar tissue in your ankle. I know it hurts. I'm … sorry. They backed off more of the morphine too, didn't they? You look like Casper the friendly ghost."

"Yeah … but they let me keep the Vicoprophen … they said for two more weeks, and then I have to wean from it gradually and begin physical therapy. They'll start me on something else; they don't know what yet."

"Was Lyons there?"

"Yeah. He said the right side is looking good. I should have full use of it when it heals."

"The left?"

"He doesn't know yet. He made me try to wiggle my toes … but I can't. It hurts so damn much …"

"You had your meds then?"

"Yeah."

"They make you sick to your stomach?"

"No … not yet anyway … but I know I can't be on those things too long. They have all kinds of nasty side effects, including renal failure."

"I know. I was wondering about that, but Lyons will back you off them as soon as you

kick the effects of the morphine withdrawal."

"House?"

"Yeah … ?"

"You haven't said anything about how your hand is … _or_ your leg. How badly did those bastards hurt you? I'm so sorry, House. I'd rather they cart the whole damn place away than see you get hurt again."

House thought Wilson was going to cry. At first he attributed it to the combination of pain and the med withdrawal, but the dark eyes were filled with pain of quite another kind.

"Whoa!" He said sharply. "This is your show, not mine. I told you I'm fine … or I will be. Besides, what happened to me was my own damn fault. I could have gone back to the car and called 911 and avoided all the crap. But I had to act like a hero … and look where it got me. Maybe I had it coming."

"Jesus, House! Don't say that! If anything happened to you, I don't know if I could handle it. There's nothing else in my life that keeps me centered the way you do. You gut punch me at least once a day … and it keeps me on my toes to the point that I'm not even sure if I could learn to live without it."

"Wilson?" House looked at him with an expression of mild disgust.

James cocked his head to the side and stared angrily. Unusual for him. "What?"

"'Keep you on your _toes??_' Wilson, you're such a jackass! You haven't got that many toes _left!_"

"See what I mean? Gut-punched! I am _not_ a jackass!"

"Yes you are!"

"Am not!"

"Are so! We're each gonna need a saddle. Hey! Look! Lunch is here!"

"Am not."

"Never mind …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

In the afternoon Wilson was able to sleep for a short time, during which Gregory House settled against his pillows and began to flex abused muscles and initiate a rambling dialogue with himself inside his own head.

Gregg's mind tended to work on multiple levels; he'd been cursed with that ability his entire lifetime. The trait had a way of causing people to look at him with suspicion, especially due to the fact that he was capable of carrying on multiple conversations simultaneously.

It was a little disconcerting to try to speak to him while he was on the phone or engaged in some other task at the same time. Others tended to be especially annoyed when his attention switched from one conversation to another without a lapse in continuity, while at the same time banging away at a computer … working the controls of a video game … or engaged in an entirely unrelated activity.

It was all academic to him.

Gregg's entire arm hurt like hell as he kept flexing the fingers of his left hand, but that did not stop him from flexing them. Rummaging around inside his own head at the same time kept him distracted enough to keep it up in spite of the gnawing pain. Sitting in this hospital bed was also a pain in the ass … in more ways than one!

Gregg had known, early in life, that he was different from other kids, and he had become accustomed at a very young age to having people stare at him as though he'd come from another planet. He accepted it as normal for him, and saw nothing strange about it.

Years later in his professional role as diagnostician, this was increasingly true. He could rattle out a list of symptoms from his vast storehouse of knowledge, ask for input from colleagues, and integrate that input instantly into everything he'd summed up inside his head a few moments before.

He would pause, frowning, and then intermingle any fresh ideas with others he had already evaluated and discarded. He would stop dead in the middle of a dialogue and confuse everyone who thought they were still part of the conversation, while a footlight revue of ideas and emotions paraded across his mobile face.

That was usually when he'd recall some microscopic detail that had meant nothing to him up to that point … but mixed with other information he had gleaned and correlated with a plethora of others that fit the pattern … spelled out the correct answer inside his multi-tasking brain.

Cuddy and Wilson often swore they could tell at exactly what moment the light bulb blinked on over House's head.

He was a phenomenon, and everyone knew it. Some were awed. Most were envious, and a few of those, outright jealous and resentful. It was like taking a mixture of volatile chemicals and combining them with another mixture of volatile chemicals … throwing them all together, then standing back to see how long it took to explode.

Simple, logical deduction …

_Ka-Boom!_

House sighed, putting his thoughts on hold for a minute. His leg was thumping painfully and intruding on his consciousness too much to ignore. When he wiggled his foot within the small arc he was still able to wiggle it, he could feel the tendons pinging back and forth, and even imagined he could hear them thumping back into their normal pathways at the apex of the thrust.

The damn splint was increasingly tight, interfering with the leg's already compromised circulation, and making his entire limb increasingly unwell. He threw off the sheet and began to undo the Velcro fastenings. He could reach the bottom ones with his left big toe, and he flicked them clean the first try. He could reach the top ones with his right hand, and he peeled them back with shredding sounds like tearing fabric. The brace came apart and fell away from his leg.

The surgical stocking remained, though it was damp with sweat. He peeled it down as far as his ankle, then dug beneath it with his toe and flipped it over the edge of the bed. After a few seconds, the metal splint lost its purchase on the sheet and when he shifted a little, it slid off with a clank onto the floor.

Gregg lifted his leg gingerly, getting under it with his right hand, and repositioned it atop the comfort of the pillow. The pressure and pain began to recede immediately, although his leg was bruised and scraped and injured, and looked like hell. He returned the sheet to waist height and resumed his muscle flexing.

Across from him, James Wilson slept fitfully. His youthful face was pinched, his breaths shallow, and Gregg knew with certainty that he would awaken soon in additional pain. He sat back and stared, studying his friend's body with renewed interest, as though seeing it for the first time.

He would not be embarrassing James or invading his privacy by staring at him this way while he was unconscious. Furthermore, it would not be polite to do an aerial survey of a man's near-naked torso while trying to have a conversation with him at the same time. Right?

Wilson's too-thin body was restless, twitching and jerking at odd intervals, as though lost in the throes of a nightmare. Watching him, Gregg felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with his own physical injuries, as he continued to allow himself the luxury of looking.

Sort of like the sensation of "butterflies" one experienced before a solo on-stage performance.

Strange …

House's topographical mapping expedition moved downward to the fresh casts on Wilson's injured legs, and further yet to the cushioned, padded bandage which had been applied afresh to the pitiful, destroyed foot.

Actually, the casts were not off-putting. They looked like thin white acrylic, not much more than a quarter of an inch thick, which closely followed the actual contours of James' legs. Both legs were slightly bent at the knees, even the reconstructed left one, and placed on pillows which actually looked comfortable … if that was the appropriate word … and sculpted, perhaps, to accommodate to the confines of a wheelchair.

Thank God! Wilson would soon be able to get out of the damned bed for short periods of time. Lyons had actually been using his talented head with this innovation, instead of his big mouth! House was impressed.

He let his eyes continue to move upward, pausing for a moment at Wilson's hips. His friend's hipbones stuck out like bony wedges below the flat stomach. God, he was so thin!

Wilson had been outfitted with hospital underwear: clumsy things that looked like adult diapers, changeable without hurting him. They barely covered James' "essentials", Gregg noticed, with which his friend had been rather generously endowed …

… like that mattered!

There came that deep jabbing sensation in his stomach again! The exquisite ache startled him to the core.

"Butterflies!"

Butterflies hell! _Eagles!_

With realization came recognition.

_Oh my God … oh my God … oh my God …_

No! It can't be!

What about all those dirty movies he and Wilson had watched and giggled over together? What about his own constant ogling of Cuddy's cleavage? Hell! What about his constant ogling of every attractive woman who ever crossed his path? What about all that?

Where did it all fit into the bizarre and startling images that were crowding his mind at that moment?

Gregg was panicking, even as he experienced the stirring.

"No. Please, no!"

His voice was harsh, sand-papery and deep in his throat.

He leaned back as far as he could manage, and felt the restless sensations below his belly. When his panic reflex awoke at the same time, he found himself involuntarily convulsed with helpless, mindless ironic laughter. He? Aroused? By _Wilson?_ His imagination was suddenly warring with his logic, and his multi-layered mind suddenly found itself in a helpless tailspin.

This was the _ultimate_ irony! The only kind worth his while … for he had never seen it coming!

Across the room, Wilson's worried voice called his name. "House?"

Gregg dropped his chin to his chest, grunting with the discomfort of the action, then looked across the room and choked off any response that might give Wilson a chance to ask stupid questions. His voice came out like gravel crunched beneath truck tires. "Finally awake, huh?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"Yep. Just … waltzing around inside my head while you snoozed."

Quickly, he discarded the bothersome arm sling and placed the wrist with the brace discreetly across his lap.

"Huh?"

"Never mind! I was probably over-thinking the situation anyway."

_I am totally whanked!_

Across the room, Wilson was staring at him as though he'd just flown in from another planet …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

143


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"The Power of the Discomfort of the Truth"

Things began to crank up the next morning about 7:00.

Galley carts in the corridors, the jingle of silverware and the clank of metal covers being removed from breakfast trays. The aroma of bacon and eggs. Liquids being poured from carafe to cup and glass. Yay! Hospital routine. The whiff of strong coffee, maple syrup and fresh-baked bread woke anyone who wasn't already stirring.

The banter of voices and early morning laughter floated on the air as nurses and aides began their shifts by administering meds and serving breakfasts. Theresa Bateman and Suzy Lupo came early to House and Wilson's room, served their morning meals, dispensed Vicodin and Vicoprophen and left again with dispatch.

"What was that all about?" Wilson asked of no one in particular, chewing on a slice of wheat toast.

"They served us first because we're special," House remarked brightly, taking a bite of his own toast and stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee.

"If you think that, then you're not awake yet," Wilson observed quietly. "Something's up." He speared a chunk of pre-cut ham and bit down on it.

House stared across the room with a frown on his face. "Like what?" He asked. "Hey! That's ham you're scarfing there, Rabbi … or didn't you notice?"

Wilson paused and met his friend's eyes. "I'm not particularly kosher … I thought you knew that. You don't spend enough time on the wards, House. When someone is served a meal out of turn … something's up. I'm just saying … y'know?"

"I concede to a higher authority." The blue eyes were snappish.

Wilson smiled and took a sip of his coffee. "Right!" He said sarcastically. "When Roy Rogers sells Trigger!"

"Bad analogy," House countered. "They're dead."

"Doesn't matter. You get the idea."

"Yeah, I guess. If you say so."

"House?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because you never give up on a good argument this easy."

"I'm bored."

Wilson's chin came up. He finished chewing another chunk of ham and swallowed it. Picked up his coffee cup again. "How can you be bored already? You just woke up."

"Says who?"

"You _didn't_ just wake up?" He sipped, looked over the brim of the cup.

"No." House could see the dark eyebrows knitting suspiciously in his direction.

"Pain?" Wilson went directly into "mother hen" mode.

"Not the kind you're talking about." Gregg averted his eyes and lowered the lids.

"Then … what? You're talking in riddles, House. Care to enlighten me?" Wilson set the cup down.

"Not really." He'd have to go to the head soon, and he needed to shuck this conversation before it got a stranglehold. He did not want to be carried by Billy Travis again.

"House? Talk to me!"

"I don't think I can …" House had found something infinitely fascinating on the opposite wall.

"Why the hell not? After all these years, what is there that you can't bitch to me about?"

"You'd be surprised."

A sudden large presence darkened the doorway, and then stepped into the room. Billy Travis had a cup of coffee in his left hand, something wrapped in plastic in the right.

House sighed with relief. Respite!

Under his right arm, Billy carried a pair of new underarm crutches still in their plastic wrap. "Morning, gentlemen," he began. "This is gonna be an historic day!" He plunked the coffee cup down on Wilson's wheeled table and walked over to House's bed with the crutches. "Anybody wanna get the hell out of this room today?"

They both looked at him, pinning his back to the wall with eyes like neon lights: two brown, two blue. Both voices in unison: "Yes!"

Billy laughed. "That sounds like a majority to me." He tore the wrap away from the crutches and placed them near Gregg's side. When he looked down, he could see an edge of the metal and Velcro splint sticking out from beneath the bed. "You took it off!" He stated flatly.

House said nothing at first, but pulled his gaze away from the walls and looked into the coal black eyes that met his own. "It hurt," he grumbled. "So, yeah … I took it off."

"That's what I said!" Travis retorted. He turned the sheet down to look at Gregg's abused leg. "I'm surprised, man … but it doesn't look all that bad." He bent to look closer. The bruising was extensive and there was still a small amount of swelling present. "May I touch it, Gregg? I'll be careful."

House closed his eyes for a moment, as though expecting more pain. "Yeah … go ahead."

Across the room he heard Wilson draw a sharp breath. Wilson had such empathy, such a soft heart. House lowered his head, lest one of them see what he was thinking.

Billy's hands were huge, warm and tender. He rested both large palms near the surgical scar, just below the area where the leg of the sweat pants had been chopped off. He kept his probing to the lateral musculature, which had nothing to adhere to, and was also beginning to lose tone. He searched gently for anything suspicious on the sides of Gregg's leg. Presently he removed his hands and stood up. "It seems to be coming along okay," he said, "but I want you to see Dr. Lyons and have him take a look at it this afternoon."

Gregg nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, yeah ... I presume those crutches are for me … I'm going to use 'em to go to the head. I'm sick of being carried."

"Okay, but be careful … your wrist won't be all that strong."

"I've been exercising it. It's stronger than it was."

"You were exercising a pulled ligament? Where'd you get your M. D.? A prize in a pack of bubble gum? Oh never mind! Go!"

House moved off the bed carefully with Billy's guiding hand on his arm. Lopsided, faltering, hurting, he limped heavily across the room, disappeared into the rest room and let the door ease shut behind him.

"Something's wrong with him," Wilson whispered softly after House was out of earshot. "Really _wrong_ … and I can't put my finger on it. It's like he's dazed … puzzled … thinking too much. And he won't _tell_ me. He always complains to me about everything … and now he's clamming up."

Travis pinned Wilson with a concerned stare. "Think it might have something to do with his not wanting you to see him hurting? He's become very protective of you lately, you know."

Wilson's glance thrust upward, locking with the black eyes. "Really?" He smiled with a quiet shyness Travis had sometimes taken notice of before. "He hides it very well."

"That sounds like House," Billy agreed. "He don't give you shit for a bucketful!"

"Tell me about it! But no … I don't think that's it, Billy. It's something else, and it's really bothering him. But there's no way I'm going to bug him about it … uh oh ... here he comes."

They watched as House made his way awkwardly across the room, stood in front of the bed and stared at it. He'd been able to slide off the edge and support himself with the crutches with no problem. Getting back up, however, was quite beyond him. He could feel their scrutiny like twin laser beams and he was not happy about it.

"Well, Mighty Mouse … why don'cha just fly on up there like the little superhero you are?" Billy was smiling, hands on hips, daring the other man to argue with him. House was painfully silent. Across the room, Wilson's face was stricken, and he seemed to be holding his breath.

House turned slightly, eyes smoldering, and glared at James. "You going to give me a hard time too?"

Wilson dropped his eyes. "Don't have to," he replied. "All I had to do was keep quiet. You kinda hung yourself."

House nodded once, a sharp downward thrust. "I had a feeling that was coming," he said.

"Who's a jackass now?" Wilson teased gently. "Tell me!"

"Niiice!" House lifted a crutch and aimed it in Billy's direction. "If you don't want decapitated, Travis, I suggest you help me back into this damn bed!"

Before he could say another word, Billy's arms were circling his waist and lifting beneath his knees, gently protecting his vulnerable right side, and placed him back against the pillows.

The crutches clattered to the floor with pinging sounds. Travis scooped them up and leaned them against the head of the bed in easy reach, refusing to let himself be baited by Gregg's murderous glare. "You gotta go see Lyons this afternoon, right?"

House's eyes continued to shoot daggers, but he nodded again. "Yeah. Another hour of 'Norman-the-Corpsman's' exquisite torture!"

"So … I'll make a call and find out when he wants you … and I'll come get you in a wheelchair. Ain't no way in hell you're gonna try to walk over there on crutches. I got no intention of picking your sorry ass off the floor!" Billy was all business. Wilson was right. Something was bothering House. A lot.

"Getting kind of bossy, aren't you?" House growled.

"Yeah," Billy admitted. "Guess I am. But that's 'cause you're my friend … and I love the hell out of you. Both of you, as a matter of fact, and it's my job to take care of you. Besides, there ain't much either of you can do about it now, is there?" The serious expression on his shining face belied the lightness of his words. Travis left them speechless long enough to make it to the doorway.

"I'll talk to you later, Jimmy," he said, "about rehab and some other stuff," and was gone around the corner.

They looked after him, and then at each other.

Thirty seconds after Travis left, Theresa Bateman, RN, appeared in the doorway with one of Princeton's Finest. "This is Lt. Michael Walter of the PPD," she said, "and he'd like to talk to you both."

Lt. Walter walked into the room and removed his hat. He was of medium height and build with a look of immense physical power about him. His skin was chocolate brown, his eyes large and dark, and he had not one hair on his shining pate, which looked almost as though it had been polished to a high sheen.

House looked at the man appraisingly. "All you need is a cobra head mask!"

His grin built disarmingly, transforming his face as a chameleon transforms its entire body surface. He dreaded having to tell about the robbery in front of Wilson and probably scaring hell out of him, but the familiar image of the powerful man before him would make it a little easier.

"Lieutenant, you look a lot like a guy I used to know out at Cheyenne Mountain …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

147


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"Wilson Speaks"

Lt. Walter was here for an hour or more, asking questions, checking off a list of the items that had been stolen from my home by the Bardos. I really had no idea of what they'd taken, and Gregg never took notice of any brand names of anything around the place in all the years he'd visited there.

But that's part of what Walter needed to know. He read from a list of the stolen stuff the cops found in the van when they caught up with the younger guy. He asked me to tell him the brand names. Smart idea. By the time he'd gone halfway down the list, he was convinced enough to sign the waiver that would return everything to Ridge Road, and after I'd signed the accompanying waiver to the department, it was all taken care of.

All I had to do was call my insurance agent. And hire someone to clean up the mess.

Then he asked House to tell him the details about the fight in the kitchen. Suddenly, I heard a strange halting quality came into my friend's voice that I'd never quite heard before; a hesitancy very unlike him, and when the timbre of his speech sort-of broke apart, it sent cold shivers cascading down my spine. He clearly didn't want me to hear about all the abuse he'd taken from them, but Walter needed to know about all of it so the police could press charges. Gregg really had no choice.

When he got to the part where those men rammed their shoulders into his legs and he went down on his bad side, and he had to relive the whole thing over again … his voice was so low that Walter had to strain to hear him; had to ask him to repeat, and when he did repeat, he knew I'd heard everything he said.

He glanced up at me with such a look of deep pain on his face, and I knew it had nothing to do with his leg. The pain came from my knowing in detail everything that had happened to him out there. It came from him knowing that now I knew everything he'd refused to talk about and had kept hedging about for two days.

And something else that he was avoiding talking about. But what?

I don't know what Gregg saw in my face then, or the things I could not help but betray as he spoke, but I could see his eyes glitter and I knew tears of bitter frustration were not far behind.

When Lt. Walter finally left with both our signatures on the release form, Gregg turned his head away from me and toward the opposite wall, and just lay there stiffly, staring at the ceiling. All of a sudden I couldn't reach him. He was suffering and deep in mental pain and his body language screamed at me to let him alone!

If I'd ever learned anything about Gregg House, it was when to back off and give him space to work through whatever it was he was working through … and leave him be until he decided to let me back in. I would do it because I respected him more than anyone I'd ever known.

For two hours our shared hospital room was very quiet. It was early in the afternoon and all the rounds were completed. Later, Billy would take Gregg to see Norm Lyons and let me know what he had found out about the start of my rehab, but for now it was quiet on the floor.

I could not help but watch him there, tense and unyielding; arm bent across his eyes, fists clenched, left knee drawn up, head thrown back on the pillow …

_Aw … House … why can't you talk to me? What in hell is causing you so much torture?_

The look of him reminded me of the way he'd looked the day he broke my arm …

Yeah, Gregg House broke my arm. Not on purpose, but he did. It was the year I turned eleven, and he was about to start his third year of college.

I guess I should begin at the beginning.

Funny, I haven't thought of it in a long time, until my parents brought it up a few weeks ago. But it reminds me of now. God, how I hate to see him hurting … physical, mental, spiritual … it's all the same …

Our families met because Gregg's Dad and my Dad were good friends. That was long before we moved to Trenton. And when our families met, _all_ of us got to be friends. I'd turned ten that year, and Gregg was twenty, and to me he was a tall, bronze God.

He liked sports. Anything that included some kind of ball. Football, baseball, basketball, tennis, golf, and anything else you can name … and he was still discovering others. He liked old cars. So, because he liked old cars, I liked old cars. I used to follow him around like a puppy, and wallow in axle grease because _he_ wallowed in axle grease.

He would call me "Puppy Face" and other stuff less complimentary. I'm pretty sure that's where all his snarky references to cute little animals came from. He liked to call me "The Wounded Puppy" and I always figured it was because of the big-brown-eyes thing I had going back then. It pissed me off royally, and he knew how to press all my buttons.

But the summer of the year he turned twenty, he signed up for a dorky local softball team that played a lot of other dorky softball teams, and generally raised hell, both during and after the games. Then, one night there was a pileup when he tried to steal home, the big jerk! Both families were there watching, and when the dust cleared, Gregg was on the bottom of the heap and didn't get up.

They drove him, stone-faced and in agony, to the hospital, and my Dad and Mom and I followed. I don't remember where Tom was … he wasn't there. But my brother and I were never as close as Gregg and I were close.

Anyhow, his ankle had taken a grinding of knees and elbows and ass bones and was very badly sprained. The doctors bound his foot until it looked like a caveman's club, gave him pain pills and a pair of crutches and sent him home with instructions to stay off it.

He did. He played it like a soap opera, and ordered me around most of that summer with demands of "get me this", "get me that", "I need this", "I can't reach that", and moaned and groaned until I was run ragged waiting on him.

And then he would rag me about being his "willing slave" until I would get so mad I was ready to grab one of his crutches and hit him over the head with it. But then he would grab me and give me a bear hug and a Dutch rub on my head and say, "thanks for your help, kid!" and I would melt, and we would do it all over again.

The following year, he signed up for that same softball team again. Gregg was twenty-one and about to be a junior in college. Never in my life had I met anyone so quick, with such a head filled with facts and trivia and a photographic memory and the attitude to go with it. He was a BMOC, and by the age of eleven, I'd already decided I wanted to be a doctor because Gregg House was going to be a doctor.

Period! End of paragraph.

Anyhow, I got to be the equipment manager for his team that year, and I guess I just never learned. The year before, I waited on him because of his hurt foot, (are you getting the irony here?) and this year I was waiting on him because he was captain of the team, and he could order me around all he wanted to. So he did. I lugged bats, balls, bases, body armor, helmets, and all the other accouterments of a ball team, and never batted an eyelash. I got to sit in the dugouts with the team members too, and to me, that was a big deal. I was learning new swear words by the dozens, and that year I even learned to spit without it running down my chin!

It was my job to keep all the equipment cleared off the playing field, and one day my enthusiasm overrode my good judgment. I spotted one of our shin guards belly up in the infield, just behind the pitcher's mound, and without thinking, I ran out to get it. As I stooped over, I heard the crack of the bat, and I thought:

Uh oh … 

Gregg was playing right field, and he started after the ball that was headed straight for him. He leapt into the air with his glove out, and I was on hands and knees, reaching into the grass for the shin guard. Gregg didn't see me. His body was like a guided missile, and he could make no sense of the shouting coming from all the voices surrounding him. He thought he was being cheered. He tripped over me like a freight train jumping the tracks, and we went down together and rolled. When we stopped rolling, my left arm was bent at an odd angle, and the left radius was putting a hump in the skin.

Gregg was horrified. Our families weren't there that evening; I'd ridden to the field with him in his ancient Buick station wagon. He looked at my arm and studied its perverted contours. Already he was a diagnostician. He locked my fingers in his right hand and gave a sharp tug to the left and away from my body. I swear I could feel the bone snap back into place. I yelled bloody murder! He tore off his shirt and wrapped it tightly about my arm just above the wrist, then swept me off my feet and ran for his car.

We were off and out of there on the way to PPTH before a crowd could gather, and before I even had a chance to cry. I trusted him so completely that I never shed a tear. At the hospital Gregg gathered me tightly into his strong arms again and got me into the emergency room so fast I couldn't believe it. That night it was Gregg's face with the sad, "Wounded Puppy" look.

Within two hours, I was splinted and in a sling, had been given a shot in the butt … I yelled like a Banshee again while Gregg laughed at me … given a bottle of pain pills and sent home with strict rules about what I could and could not do for six weeks.

Gregg never hollered at me for taking such a stupid chance back on the ball field, and for those six weeks he gave willingly all the attention I'd been forced to give him the summer before. He took it upon himself to be my guardian and my baby sitter; he teased me until I wished many times that he would just shut-the-fuck up and leave me alone. He was a college student who could have been out doing other things, and yet he was there for an adoring eleven-year-old.

That was the summer that Gregory House rose even higher in Godhood to me, and that was the summer I went from hero worship to love. And I never stopped.

Even now, as I watch his rigid body fighting some unknown battle over there in that bed, I would give my soul and everything I own to make him stop hurting and make him whole again.

After two hours or so, Gregg turned back to face me. His eyes were red-rimmed, and glittered like shattered cobalt glass. He's forty-six years old, but his misery added another ten years to it, and it broke my heart. Again! I didn't speak; just watched for him to make the first move, say the first word. At last he did.

"Jimmy?"

I cocked my head, trying to keep my face neutral, my eyes centered on his. He almost never called me by my first name.

"Wilson? Are you all right? Jesus! I never meant for you to hear all that crap. I never wanted you to know what happened that night at your place. I'm so freakin' sorry …"

"Gregg …" I never called him by his first name either!

His eyes closed at the sound of my voice. His chin went to his chest.

"House, please. I'm all right. I'm fine … I'm not that fragile. Look at me!"

His eyes opened again, still tortured. I could sense a need in him; a hunger, and at the same time I understood that, whatever it was, he still could not tell me. Not yet. Maybe never. I knew that I had chosen to be this man's friend a very long time ago, and I also knew that it had to be on _his _terms … not mine … and it was okay.

I let more time slide past between us. He was teetering on the edge of decision, but I could see his fists slowly unclenching, then his leg straightened down on the bed. I heard him sigh. His lips moved, talking silently to the ceiling. I continued to wait.

He finally turned all the way back to look at me without flinching. His eyes had cleared, his breathing evened out. "There are some things I need to tell you," he said at last. "But the time isn't right. It might never be right. The only thing I know for sure is that you have to get well first, and I have to make some kind of effort to stop being a prick. I don't know if either of those things are possible."

I did not question him about any of "those things". I only knew it was waay past time to change the subject.

"House?'

"What?"

"Whenever you're ready … I'm here."

He smiled in that gentle way that made his dimples come back, and I hadn't seen that for awhile. "Yeah … I know. You're here even when I'm _not_ ready …"

I smiled too. Happily. "Damn straight, House!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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152


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 

"Come Be With Me"

Billy Travis picked up Dr. House at 3:00 p.m. to take him to see Norman Lyons in Orthopedics. Once Gregg was settled into the large black wheelchair and his leg raised in front of him, Billy turned to Jim Wilson who sat and watched closely, and explained that he would return soon and speak with him about a time when he would probably leave for rehab.

All the way to Ortho, House allowed himself to be pushed, but kept up a running commentary about Wilson going over there to be tortured for six to eight weeks the way he himself had been tortured over there for damn near nine months, but had still come out not much better than he'd been when he went in. And on and on.

Travis knew from bitter experience not to get embroiled in an argument with House when he went off on one of his monistic rants with a single sentence that went on and on with no punctuation and no pause which would allow for interruption or question.

Billy plodded along the corridors with the wheelchair preceding him, only half listening to the monosyllabic babble going on up ahead. The only good thing about it was that Billy had finally understood the central theme, and that House was none too happy about being out of touch with Wilson for however-many weeks he spent in rehab, and how in hell the man could possibly return to his home to face steps he couldn't climb, and narrow doorways he couldn't traverse in a wheelchair or on crutches … and that there would be no one there to look after him.

Fortunately, however, the monologue ran out of words when the wheelchair got to the entrance to Orthopedics, and so, thank God, did House.

Norm Lyons had cleared his schedule for the wiry diagnostician, and Billy Travis turned over the wheelchair with a barrel roll of his dark eyes and left without a word of farewell.

"How ya doin' House?" Norm asked with nonchalance he didn't feel as he stared into the annoyed face.

"Pissed," came back the sarcastic answer.

"And why is that?" Lyons kept his tone neutral.

"Why are you sending Wilson over to rehab so soon? You know he's not ready."

"My number-one reason is to get him away from you!"

"What??" House came around in the chair with a force that swung it to the side and made him inhale a hiss of pain.

"Gregg, listen to me!" Norm Lyons was an instinctive man who had known for a long time that House and Wilson enjoyed a close relationship. "We have to get him started early with this … or he's going to build up so much scar tissue that it'll never break loose. You wouldn't wish the kind of pain you've had to endure on him … would you?'

It had been the right thing to say at the right time. Lyons could see the anger in the blue eyes begin to defuse, and the rigid facial muscles relax. House would never wish the pain he dealt with every day of his life onto anyone else, much less Jim Wilson.

"No. Never."

"I didn't think so. He's going to hurt … yes. But he's also going to get better. We want to see if we can't find a way that he can walk on that foot of his, and that's going to be a tall order."

"How can I help?"

"By helping yourself."

"Huh?"

"First, let's get you over on the table and evaluate your leg. Those fools did you quite a bit of damage and we've got to see what we can do about that."

Gregg found himself on an examination table under strong lights and Norm Lyons, rubber gloved and sterilized, probed every inch of his crippled leg to the point of bringing him nearly to tears. His knee and ankle had both been damaged by the skirmish in Wilson's kitchen, and Lyons urged House again, to use a brace to strengthen it, and to keep from injuring it, inadvertently, again.

Just as urgently, House refused, assuring Norm Lyons, on no uncertain terms, that a brace would only increase the pain twofold, and decrease his mobility by at least half. He knew he could not walk, but promised to use crutches until it healed as much as possible. By the time the evaluation was finished, House was exhausted, trembling and hurting so badly his entire body radiated with it.

Presently, Lyons removed the brace from his injured wrist and examined that also. "This is doing well," he commented softly, "but not quite ready for you to turn cartwheels or swing from the chandelier."

"Har de har …" was the only comment.

When he was finally back in the wheelchair, Lyons came over and placed a hand on House's shoulder. "You have to take it easy, Gregg. You … _have_ … to take it easy! I can't stress that to you enough. Your leg has taken some serious trauma. You _have_ to rest it … you _have_ to stay off it.

"What I was saying to you earlier about being there for Jim Wilson … there's no reason why you can't do that. It's nothing he hasn't already done for you. But in your case it's different. You're a man with a disability that sucks … because it can never heal … trying to be Superman for someone with two injured legs, which _will_ eventually heal.

"I don't want to hear of either of you trying to play 'can-you-top-this' to see which of you can be more macho than the other. That would make me very angry … and like ol' David Banner used to say: 'You wouldn't like me when I'm angry!' So don't test me to see how big my balls are. Got it?"

House snickered a little at the quote; not liking what he heard, but knowing he had no choice. His leg throbbed with the same intensity it had expressed when he'd been brought into the ER two days before. He needed to get back to his room and take a Vicodin. Maybe two. Eventually, he agreed.

"I want you on crutches for at least two weeks," Lyons was saying. "No excuses, no weight bearing. No bullshit! I understand you live in a 'handicap' apartment. Can you see to your own needs there?"

House nodded.

"Good. I'm releasing you tomorrow morning. You will go home and stay there! I'll call Lisa Cuddy and make arrangements with her. You will _not_ come to work for those two weeks, is that clear?"

"My God, Norman! I'll go crazy cooped up in there."

"No, you won't. You'll find things to do. You told me a couple weeks ago you were working on a research paper for a guy in Chicago. Finish it up! And allow your leg to heal. I'll know if you're doing as I say, because I'm going to send Bill Travis around to check on you. Bill's the best nurse we have available, and trust me … he won't take any of your crap."

Gregg sighed. That was for damn sure!

He hurt all over. He needed to get out of there and lie down.

From across the room, an LPN walked toward him with a small glass of water and a pill cup. "I knew I'd have to hurt you when I examined your leg," Lyons explained kindly. He straightened and took the medication from the woman who turned and left again. "Here. You need to take the edge off …"

"Thanks." Gregg took the pills gratefully and swallowed the water.

It was Norm Lyons who pushed him in his wheelchair, back to his room, and assisted him into bed. Again, "thanks" was his only response, but he saw Lyons' grin of triumph as the man turned around and sauntered into the hall.

_Asshole!_

Three minutes later, Billy Travis walked through the doorway behind James Wilson in a big motorized wheelchair. House caught his breath and stared. Wilson's casts were hidden beneath a soft blanket, and he looked nothing less than exuberant.

Billy had released his right arm from its cast, and he wore a much smaller brace, which stabilized the weak joint with an extension into the palm.

Jimmy beamed across at his best friend. "House! I'm paroled!" The smile on his face made Gregg's heart flutter.

He might have been ecstatically happy for Wilson … if he hadn't felt so terribly empty for himself.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

That evening in their shared room:

After Cuddy and the Ducklings had been there to visit and then had gone; after Billy Travis had been there and left; after Luther and Claire Wilson had been to visit, and gone; after supper and meds and evening ministrations, and finally after the hospital lighting had been lowered to night levels, they had time to touch base with one another.

House told Wilson that he was being discharged in the morning, and that he'd been told he must revert to crutches and stay home for two weeks to allow the trauma to his leg to begin to heal properly.

Wilson's dark eyes had glistened brightly with concern and affection.

"I'll miss you, House …"

Wilson revealed that he was being sent to rehab Monday morning, and since he had no one to look after him at home, and his parents could not leave home and work to offer any long-term assistance, he would likely stay there throughout his rehabilitation. House took the news badly. Silently. Resentfully.

"Gonna be pretty damn quiet at my place without your big mouth. Nobody to mess up the couch … lose my remote control … drink all my booze and smoke all my cigars …"

At midnight they both tried to get some sleep.

House's leg would not let him settle down. Wilson could hear his ragged breathing.

Wilson was also restless, and House could hear his sheets thrashing about as he tried to find a position in which to be comfortable.

About 3:30 a.m. they both reached to their wheeled tables for sips of ice water to ease their scratchy throats.

"Fuck!" House rasped. "I hate this! I _hate_ this! I feel like somebody's scuttling the ship right out from under me. I'm rudderless."

"Me too," Wilson agreed. "And I'm laying here wondering if I'm just getting myself into some kind of stupid frame of mind …"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I don't want to go over to rehab, House. I'm a little scared."

"I know. Me too, and I don't want you to go. I was scared shitless when I had to be there … and it was so damn long because I lived alone and had no one to help out. They couldn't do anything for me anyhow. It was nothing but pain and frustration … and for what? So they could tell me I'd never get better … and I was going to be a cripple the rest of my life anyway? I don't want that to happen to you, Wilson. It would kill me if that happened to you …"

"House … I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for heaping all this other agony on you. Sorry for being such a hothead with Julie, sorry for running after you to cry on your shoulder. I'm sorry for hiding on your couch all those times … sorry for causing you all this additional hurt on top of what you already had … ah House …"

"Stop it, Wilson! The accident was _not_ your fault! You're human. You are the most human of all the human beings I've ever known. You saved forty school kids … and that has to count for something. Don't you ever … ever … apologize to me for what happened! I'm fine … you're fine. Jimmy … every ship needs a rudder, and you're mine!"

House heard Wilson's choked laugh. Heard him blow his nose, then laugh again. "Hey House?"

"Huh?"

"It's unbelievably civil of you to say that. I guess we're both a little rudderless right now. Remember when we talked about writing that song?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"I have a first verse. We'll need your guitar to finally figure out a melody though."

"So run it by me!"

"Okay …

"'I watched my life go down the drain, as though by Fate's design,

'But I picked myself back up again, and I'm fine.'"

"Not bad. I've heard worse. How about this for the second verse:

"'I've had the life choked out of me in ways I can't define,

'But faith in things I cannot see assures me that I'm fine.'"

"Cool! And how about this for a bridge:

"'My ship of life is cast adrift on dark and stormy sea,

'But you're the rudder of my soul, the port that calls to me.'"

"That's good, Wilson. How about a third verse!"

Wilson floundered for a moment, but then his voice picked up again.

"'You and me, we're both the same. We beat the odds each time.

'Tho' halt and lame, we played the game, and things turned out just fine.'

"Your turn!"

Gregg's voice took on an edge, and Wilson drew back a ragged breath, as he finally began to understand what his friend had been trying to tell him all this time. It had taken the simplicity of a song.

"'I know you're here to guard my back, and here to hold the line.

'You give to me the grace I lack; I'm yours and you are mine.

'And we're fine.'"

They finished it at 5:00 a.m. Laughing through their pain. And they looked at each other soundlessly for a long time across the space that separated them.

Telepathy in the shadows.

At 5:30 a.m. Gregory House finally made the suggestion they might both be able to live with:

"Why don't you sell that big, empty shack on Ridge Road … and come be with me?"

"Maybe … I will …"

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158


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"Strains, Sprains and Automobiles"

Gregory House rode out the first few days of his "incarceration" in exasperation, resentment, escalated pain, total boredom and a whole plethora of snarky rejoinders flipping around inside his head in case anyone tried to talk to him or tell him the enforced isolation was "for his own good". He had a sneaking feeling somebody was trying to get rid of him for awhile. Or get even with him for all those years he'd spent being a bastard!

_Not gonna happen, people!_

Billy Travis stopped by the apartment at odd times, obviously on orders from Lyons, but never found House without the crutches close by, if not actually "on" them. Only once did he try a sarcastic remark: "Doc Lyons was right, wasn't he? You're too damn sore to even _try_ to put weight on that!"

House stared at him with murderous intensity. "You know, friend, these things are a lot longer than the cane, and they pack twice the wallop! If I wanted to, I could make it so that both of us are on crutches!"

Billy raised his hands palms out. Pacifying. "Whoa there, Sawbones! I was just making an observation."

Gregg backed down with a snarky grunt of concession. He moved to his leather lounger and eased himself down. Picked up the bad leg by the pant leg and lifted it onto the stool in front of him. "I didn't mean to take all my garbage out on you, Billy. Sorry."

"Yeah, I know, Boss. It's okay. So tell me what you're so up-tight about."

House let go a snort of sarcastic laughter. "You haven't got that kind of time!"

"I never make plans I can't break. You're my friend. If you wanna talk … then I wanna listen. Tell me what pisses you off the most."

There was a subtle change in the too-tired face; a bleakness that spoke of too many thoughts unexpressed, too many frustrations unresolved, too much worry with no resolution.

"I miss my work. Remember John Henry, the trumpet player? He told me that he and I were a lot alike … that we each had one 'thing' that made life work out for both of us. His was music. Mine was my job. I gave the stuff he said a lot of thought … and he was right. Without the hospital giving me a central focus, everything comes apart for me, and I lose the cement that keeps me glued together. Without it, I'm just a Goddamned mean, pathetic cripple who's no good to anybody … not even myself.

"You were right awhile ago, Billy … my leg isn't getting better. I can't even put my foot flat on the floor yet, and I swear I'm doing everything Lyons told me to do … resting it. Staying off it."

"Boss … Gregg …" Billy interrupted him softly. "It's not that I don't believe you, but if you're doing as you're told and resting as ordered, how do you know you can't put your foot flat on the floor? Unless you've been _trying_ to put it flat on the floor! That's not resting. I know he said 'no weight bearing', because he told me everything he said, and that's why he chases me over here on a regular basis to check. He also knows you have this lousy habit of not answering your phone, and he doesn't want someone to find you passed out on the floor … or worse."

"Billy, I don't even think of all that as not obeying orders. I just do it. I'm trying to find a way of gauging myself … trying to find some small difference … that something might be better today than it was yesterday. I don't know. I do it without thinking about it.

"I miss the thing that I do best. Healing! I miss the satisfaction I get from doing something that I'm better at doing than anyone else. I miss knowing that I can still do better than anyone else at _something!_ When I'm working, I'm not a 'cripple'. I'm a Doctor! I even miss Cuddy! And …"

"And you miss Jimmy."

"Yeah … Jimmy."

"And that's what this is all about, isn't it? You can't see him, and you're worried about him. When you two talk on the cell phone, it's not like it is when you're face to face."

"No. It's not. I know he's hiding things from me … like his pain … God! How well I remember that! He doesn't want me to worry, and it makes me worry more."

"Gregg … when will you ever admit to yourself where you really are with this?"

"Such as what?"

"C'mon Gregg … you know what I mean. Don't make me spell it out."

But House would not say it. Billy could see the fear in his craggy features: fear of not being good enough. Fear of not measuring up, fear of rejection, fear of not even being totally sure of who he was, or what his future might have in store. Billy had seen it in Gregory House before. It was like recognizing courage: those who knew Gregg really well … even those who hated his ass … could see his courage radiating from him in waves.

But House could not see it in himself.

The visit ended on a sour note. Travis would not press him. He was not ready. Instead, the big man placed his caring hand on House's bony shoulder, fully aware of the turmoil going on beneath.

"Don't get up, Gregg. I can let myself out. But please … listen to what Dr. Lyons says, and stay off your leg. If you want it to get back to where it was before all this happened, give it time to heal. Don't rush it. You'll only fail."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The first week passed slowly, a trying, frustrating, dragging succession of empty hours. By the weekend, Gregg hated the place and everything in it, including himself. Over the next two days, he over-medicated on Vicodin and slept the hours away in stuporous oblivion, rousing only long enough to empty his bladder and refill it with more of whatever was handy.

The stubble on his face grew long enough to itch like hell, and began to curl under. He ignored it. He did not shower, and he could smell his own body odor. He pulled the pillow over his face and ignored that too. He did not eat, and his clothing hung off his skinny frame as they might have hung on a clothesline. Blowing in the wind!

But he rested the leg. He did not even wiggle his toes or flex his ankle. His cell phone warbled and warbled and went unanswered. The phone in his living room did the same. Messages accumulated and accumulated.

On Sunday night, Billy Travis came back with Eric Foreman in tow. Billy let himself in with the key he'd gone across town to procure from a sick-with-worry James Wilson.

Gregg House was asleep on his bed, a pillow pulled over his head. He was clad only in boxer shorts, and never heard them until Travis leaned down to clasp his shoulder. "Hey Gregg? Boss? You all right?"

He rolled over onto his back and pulled the pillow away, placing it across his groin. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

"What the hell have _you_ been doing?" Was Foreman's caustic rejoinder.

"Trying to get some sleep. My leg hurts. What time is it?"

"It's seven-thirty … Sunday night. Dr. Wilson has been trying to reach you all weekend. He sent us over here. He's worried out of his mind about you."

"Sunday? God! I don't even know what day it is!"

Travis held up the pill vial House had left on the nightstand, lidless. There were two Vicodin left in the bottom. "Been on a little weekend trip, Gregg?" The deep voice contained no humor.

House turned his head toward the wall, away from both of them. "Well, whaddaya expect from a drug addict?"

"Jesus Christ!" Foreman growled. "You're a bigger jackass than I thought you were!"

Harsh laughter suddenly filled the room. "You're too late, Foreman. I've been a jackass for years. The saddle's in the closet."

"That aint all that's in the closet!" Travis growled under his breath. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"All of them. Never mind. An' you got no sense of humor."

He was silenced by Foreman's large hands, reaching beneath his arms, pulling him up and onto his ass. The movement sent a shot of pain through his leg and he yelped. "Ow!"

"C'mon House! … let's go! Get up! You need to walk this off. Here are your crutches.

Get over on the other side of him, Bill. He's been overdosing … doesn't even know he was doing it. He's a prick, but he needs us right now."

They walked Gregory House very slowly around his apartment, supporting his pitifully weak body while he tried to find purchase with the crutches and still not let his foot press the floor. It was a painful, arduous and tortured journey.

Bill Travis related a brief segment of Gregg's medical history while Eric Foreman soaked it all in and joked about the three of them being "a walking Oreo Cookie". Gradually, however, he became more and more sober as he learned of the agonizing history of the man they were trying to help.

Later, Foreman's anger with his superior fell away, to be replaced with a grudging respect and a new admiration. He decided he would never show it though; bad for House, even worse for himself.

ouse,House,

After a half hour, it was obvious that Gregg had reached the end of his endurance. They allowed him to sit down and lean his head back. They made him steaming tea and a hot sandwich. They massaged the pain out of, and the sensation back into, his injured leg.

They kneaded the arch and instep of his sore foot until he finally admitted that the pressure was receding and the pain was easing. They removed his smelly underwear and held him up while he showered, then again while he shaved his coal-pile face all the way down to the skin, leaving his neck, cheeks and chin white and smooth.

They made him comb his hair and put on clean underwear and a fresh sweat suit. They put socks on his feet, but let the sneakers lay on the floor. Except for no stubble, he almost looked like himself.

Billy Travis dug Gregg's cell phone out of the chaos that was his bedroom. "Here. Call Wilson … before he has a heart attack!"

Gregg slowly punched in a number. A voice answered at the other end, and they heard House say: "I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine …" Their own Morse Code.

Loathe to intrude further on their conversation, Eric and Billy went into the kitchen to clean up from the hot tea and sandwich making. Foreman's face was thoughtful as he rammed a handful of perishables back into the refrigerator. "Travis … can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You've known Dr. House and Dr. Wilson a long time, haven't you?"

"Yup." Billy smiled to himself. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

"Did it ever occur to you that they might be … ?"

"Oh, hell yeah!"

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Bet me!"

"Do you think they're … ?"

"Yup."

"Do you know for sure?"

"It's not carved in stone anywhere, but I've heard gossip. It's complicated."

"What do you mean, 'complicated'? How?"

"All I can tell you is what I think. An' I never shared this with anybody else before. You're the first one who asked."

"So … bring it on!"

Travis shrugged. "Okay …

"They both have this damned ancient idea that what they mean to each other is 'wrong'. They don't mess with it … they don't talk about it … they do all the 'guy stuff' that's expected of them, and they deal with it. But I think they're both faking it … and that never works, Eric. I have a cousin who has a male partner … and it's _their_ business!"

Travis paused to gauge Foreman's reaction, but the other man was interested in what he had to say, and seemed to be concentrating on his words. After a moment, he continued. "Why do you think Wilson's been married three times and none of those marriages got off the ground? Why do you think House gives Cameron that pitying look when she moons around him and makes a total ass of herself? Believe it or not, he's _trying_ to be kind. She'd love to get into his pants … but what's already _in_ his pants is looking for something else! She hasn't a clue!

"These two don't need wives or lovers. They need each other! But deep inside they're still trying to be 'normal'. Shit! What _is_ that nowadays? It's bull! You can't help who you fall in love with, and nobody in his right mind wakes up in the morning and says to himself: 'Gee … I guess I'll try being gay today!'

"I think it's great for both of them, and I think the sparks will fly when they finally get a clue … but it's none of my business, Eric … and they have to get there all by themselves. That's nobody else's business either!

"Now see what you did? You got me started, Foreman, and it's one of my biggest pet peeves in the world!"

Eric Foreman stood as though his shoe soles had been nailed to the floor. With all his intelligence, all his savvy and all his educational privilege, he had never given this aspect of life the slant he'd just received from a colleague he was getting to know and like a lot.

"Man, you just blew me away! I never thought of it that way before. Are you trying to tell me you'd be in favor of the two of them getting it together?"

"In every way you could possibly think of!" Billy exclaimed. "So there! You'll either begin to understand, or you'll never speak to me again. I can live with it either way."

Eric grinned, and there was a beauty that suddenly awoke within his dark countenance that had not been there before. "I'm beginning to like the way you think, Bro. I surely do. And by the way, this conversation never happened. Okay?"

Travis grinned back. "What conversation?"

They changed the sheets on House's bed and helped him settle into it. They cleaned up the mess on the bedroom floor so he would not trip over anything. They left quietly and locked the front door behind them.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It had taken Gregg an hour of reassurances to convince James Wilson that he was indeed all right, and had not ceased breathing, and was not lying dead or gravely injured on his kitchen floor.

House did _not_ admit that he had overdone the medication in order to seek oblivion and allow the long boring weekend to pass in a Vicodin stupor. Twice he thought he'd detected a hitch in the voice behind the guarded words. Still, he remained uncertain how to convince his friend he was telling the truth, and not lying with his fingers crossed behind his back.

He assured James that he was indeed following the orders given by Norman Lyons and was using the crutches every time he made a move to go anywhere; do anything … even go to the head or stand in the shower.

When he, in turn, asked about James' therapy, he did his best not to sound needy. He held back most of the questions in his mind concerning the pain and the manipulation of his best friend's terribly injured limbs. Purposely he did not ask about the maimed foot, because he knew any answer would twist in his stomach and hurt in his heart as though it was happening to him personally, all over again.

Already, his pain for Wilson was consuming him from the inside out, and he was increasingly unsure if he could stand to listen to more. He often wished he had the power to make the whole thing go away and see Wilson standing before him, straight and strong, hands in his trouser pockets, or in the pockets of the clean white lab coat, a look of sly humor stealing across his boyish face as he leaned around some doorframe or other, seeking out his friend with a quiet snip of silliness or teasing.

It was difficult to realize that this was very possibly a sight that was gone forever, and he would never witness it again. His visions of his best friend were always very precise, very fresh in his mind; always smiling and even "wounded puppy eyed" just at the edge of perception.

He was anxious for the week to end and bring with it the end of his enforced isolation, when he could finally leave this "jail", get into his fancy Envoy and drive over to Rehab.

One week to go. He could do it! He had done this one; he would do the next one. And then he could see James. For real!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The following Sunday evening, Gregg found that he could indeed place his foot flat on the floor. Not without accompanying pain, but he could do it. He knew in his doctors' heart that he could not go back to the cane for awhile yet, but he _could_ go back to work, and he _could_ go to Wilson whenever he wanted.

They could make plans for Wilson to move into House's easy-to-navigate "handicap" apartment on East Side Drive in just a few months … whenever he was able … and when he could finally be released from the constant supervision of rehab.

Gregg could drive Wilson back and forth to his therapy sessions once a day … every day.

And they would be fine.

Just ask him!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

166


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained"

It was almost two months until Gregg House was able to go back to using his cane in the same fashion as he had used it before the altercation at Jim Wilson's place. His leg was a little more fragile than it had been before, and the limp a little more pronounced. He was slowly getting used to the monthly evaluations in Orthopedics insisted upon by Cuddy and Lyons, and the corresponding soreness for a few days afterward, when he was allowed to bow out of Clinic Duty with no repercussions.

He almost welcomed the pain, since he also came to welcome the results. The Ducklings let their feelings be known that they thought he was crazy to feel this way, but he reminded them sarcastically that they had never walked a mile in his moccasins. Nor would they care to.

House did a ton of research during that time, on top of the diagnostic demands, and was one day pleased to see a handwritten letter on his desk, which was addressed to him personally, and was postmarked from Chicago. He tore it open with enthusiasm and it was indeed from Jeffrey Geiger of Chicago Hope hospital.

Jeff would be in New York City the week of August 8th to 12th for a symposium on the latest cardiac technique, and would really like to get together with Gregg for another "wild night on the town", and also to find out what in hell had happened that made House drop all correspondence with him for more years than he'd cared to count.

That evening, Gregg took the letter over to rehab to show it to Wilson. James was good at this type of thing, and could advise him on how to proceed. House was not sure how he would be perceived by the prestigious Chicago physician when he first saw him as he appeared now, and how angry he would be that Gregg had not been up front with him.

Wilson was propped up in his bed with a book in his lap when Gregg House peeked around the edge of his doorway, and then, grinning, stepped forward and moved toward him.

"Hey Wilson!"

"Hey House! Starting to peep around doorjambs, huh?"

"Uh huh … gotta keep up the tradition 'til you can get back to it yourself."

"Might be awhile yet."

Wilson's right leg was out of its cast now, but the limb was still braced laterally and encased in a tight support stocking that clung like a second skin to the contours of its thinned configuration. Wilson was now able to use a manual wheelchair, and had learned to slide his butt from bed to chair in one smooth motion. The left leg, however, was still in a cast, and the severely damaged foot still encased in soft bandages that concealed its true condition from prying eyes. The foot pained him constantly, but Wilson kept the worst of it controlled with strong medication and sheer stubbornness.

Smiling, James pulled down the edge of the sheet and with effort, bent his right knee and drew his leg up, not quite halfway. Wincing slightly, he let it ease back again and rubbed at a spot near the kneecap. "Look what I can do, Dad!" He bragged.

"You're making good progress," House noted, remembering the agony when Wilson first managed to break loose the calcium buildup at the knee joint and bent it for the first time. Now the knee was flexing, and he felt a lump forming in his throat at his friend's pride in attaining another step toward mobility.

House dropped his cane onto the bed and sat down on the edge, gently moving James' hand aside and taking over the massage himself. "Lie back and relax a minute. Bend your knee a little and let me do some of the work".

James eased back gratefully and Gregg wrapped his long fingers about the joint, gently stroking its realigned contours. The vertical scar where the stitches had been removed was long and knotted, and extended from hip to ankle. House caressed the knee in a circular motion, soothing with both thumbs, gauging the amount of swelling still lurking beneath.

He wondered if Wilson was aware of what he was doing. He doubted it. Jim's eyes were clenched shut, his mouth open with the exquisite agony of the sensations. Gregg was reminded of his own experience the week he'd detoxed, when Wilson hired the masseuse who'd dug her fingers into the palm of his hand the same way. He kept it up, his strong right hand continuing to jockey the weakened muscles and tendons beneath his grasp.

When he hit an extremely sore spot and James gasped beneath his grip, he stopped and caressed the area where his touch had caused pain. "Sorry, I was trying to give you relief, not hurt you."

"Stop apologizing, please. That felt … so good. Your hands are strong, and it helped more than it hurt." Wilson straightened again and looked across at the sad grizzled face. "You have something on your mind. What's up?"

Gregg scratched at the scruff with two fingers. Wilson could read him like a book, and he was not sure if he liked that. It meant he was becoming transparent, and he liked that even less. "Read this letter," he finally said. "It came today. I told you about this guy a month or so back when I sent him some research stuff on a case we handled. He and I used to correspond once in awhile. Then, when my leg went south, I just let it tank. He's kind of confused; wants to know what happened … and what do I tell him? What's he going to think when he sees me … like this?"

"House …"

The wounded puppy look was there, all glassy eyed and empathic. "If he's any kind of a man, he'll see a great doctor who's been dealt a lousy hand. The last time you saw him was ten years ago, right? Well, he'll see you as ten years older, just as you'll see him. Maybe he got fat. Maybe he went bald. Maybe his ears fell off. What does it matter? The two of you will resolve it in two minutes flat, and move on. So what do you need from me?"

House sighed and leaned his head back between his shoulder blades. He was getting tired. His leg hurt. "Ah Wilson … what I needed from you was exactly what you gave me. Thank you."

"Sure. Are you two going to go out and do some 'Lounge Lizard' stuff? Maybe?"

"I have no idea. It would be cool, but I'm not sure I'd last the night."

"If you do, please be careful. I don't need you in the next bed here too. I don't need you around to hear me screaming my head off."

Gregg's head came up in alarm. "What?"

"You heard me. I'm trying to learn to bite the bullet … just like you did."

"Really hurts, huh?"

"Like a son of a bitch!"

"Can you put any weight on the right leg?"

"A little bit."

"Can't stand on it yet, right?"

"No. Not strong enough. But I wear the brace and practice at the parallel bars. Oh, by the way, Haley and Nicole said to tell you 'Hi!'"

"They're still running their little torture chamber, huh?"

"Oh yeah, and they've gotten a lot better at it. They asked me if I was still married. I told 'em 'no'."

"Then what'd they say?"

"They said 'too bad'. Haley is married now. She has a little girl. Nicole is engaged. Guess I should'a took 'em up on their fantasies when you were in here. Too late now."

"Yeah … way too late!" House straightened his body and slid himself back against the pillow beside Wilson, not bothering to try to take his shoes off. He leaned back again, folded his hands in his lap. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No. Of course not. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

They laughed together. It was becoming a catch phrase between them.

"House?"

"Mmmm?"

"Next time you come over here … ?"

"Mmmm?"

"Bring your guitar, will you? You've got to do a melody for our theme song …"

"Mmmm …"

It was too late. Gregory House was falling comfortably asleep, his head tilted onto Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson did not disturb him. Instead, he threaded his arm between House's neck and the front of the pillow, and drew his friend's upper body closer to his own. Lazily, he ran his fingers through House's tangled and wiry darkish hair.

James was comfortable too, more comfortable than he had been in a long time. After awhile he reached across and gently laced the fingers of his left hand through the fingers of Gregg's right hand, and it felt very natural to do that.

When the night nurse came on at eleven o'clock, she found them both asleep, heads lightly touching, breathing deeply, faces peaceful. She smiled, gently removed both of House's shoes, and doused the light, leaving only the nightlight burning dimly. She had often seen them together here, and had sometimes wondered if they might be more than friends.

It looked as though she had just witnessed part of the answer.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

169


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"I'll Take You Home Again, Wil-son!"

August twelfth was a Friday, and Gregg House was antsy. Jeffrey Geiger had called from the "Ruby Tuesday" Restaurant in Manhattan to say he was on his way to Trenton to meet his daughter there the next day. He would come by PPTH about five and meet up with House. After that they would make plans for the evening. Gregg had agreed to meet the man in the lobby. He'd brought his acoustic guitar along and it sat propped in its case by his feet.

So here in the lobby he sat, twirling his cane, rehearsing a tentative melody inside his head and trying to distract himself from the pain of what had been a lousy day. Nothing had gone right from the time he'd walked through the door that morning.

Chase and Cameron had both called off sick … Hmmmmm! … and the day's crapload had fallen entirely to himself and Foreman. Not only that, but it had been the day of his monthly date with Lyons in Orthopedics, and his leg was in revolt. Again.

Something was out of kilter in the physical plant where the mains were located for the hospital's huge air conditioning system, and half of the big units were still down, including his. He had sat in his lounge chair trying to concentrate on a case history while sweating bucketfuls. He'd finally given up on it and sneaked to the ObGyn lounge where the air was still cool and the hottest things there were the soap opera scandals.

At 1:00 p.m. he made his way to Norm Lyons and the sweltering Ortho examination room to be probed and prodded and have his leg evaluated until it became very angry and let him know it. He'd hobbled painfully toward the door, sweating his life fluid down the back of his shirt when the session was finally over. Behind him, the cheerful chiding of his "friend" Norman:

"Gregg, it wouldn't hurt for you to do a few exercises. You could avoid some of your muscular stiffness, and your leg will be better for it …"

"Oh yeah? Better than what? Better than being prodded with a red-hot poker in this sweatshop? Or better at keeping me awake all night curled up in pain? Or better at biting my lip bloody while I'm trying to walk down the hall? Screw you, Lyons! I'd like to run a hot poker up your 'you-know-what' … see what it does for _your_ leg!"

Norm Lyons didn't bother to comment further. What the hell was the use? He shook his head, rolled his eyes and went back to check in on his next patient.

And now, Gregory House sat in the hospital's big lobby, where the air conditioners still didn't work, but the overhead fans did, and he was still sweating like a racehorse, twirling his cane and wishing the swarm of bees buzzing around in his leg would just fucking _stop!_

He heard a commotion and looked up. Coming toward him through the main entrance, galloping along as though he had a deadline in hell, was Jeffrey Geiger, the Prince of Chicago Hope. Jeff didn't look any different now than he had ten years ago. A few more pounds, maybe; a little less hair, but the dignity and bearing of the man had not diminished one iota. The dimples when he grinned were deeper, even, than Gregg's, and the lustrous, popping brown eyes with their long lashes, could pin a person to the wall like a Grenadier Saber, and had been known to do so frequently.

Gregg House struggled to his feet with effort, and switched his cane to his left hand so he could extend his right one.

At that instant, a flicker of empathic pain flashed in Geiger's dark eyes as he evaluated the situation before him in a heartbeat. He slid to a halt in front of Gregg House and, alarmed, held both hands palms-up in astonished comprehension before he actually came into contact with any part of Gregg's body.

"My God, man! You're so thin! And you've gotten yourself hurt! I'm half afraid to touch you."

House dropped his hand and lowered his head, defeated. So this was how he first appeared to the uninitiated. He couldn't show it, or even admit it to himself, but he was crushed. Jeffrey Geiger could not bear to lay hands upon him.

Then the resounding voice spoke again, but barely above a whisper. "Gregory … I would dearly love to give you a hug after all these years … but can I do it without hurting you?"

House blinked. A hug? From the prestigious Guru of ChiHo?

"You won't hurt me, Jeff. I won't break." He held out both arms in clumsy invitation, and Geiger walked into them. They embraced lightly, and drew apart for further appraisal, each allowing the other a sly grin.

"Is _this_ the reason you ignored me for ten years? You were worried about what I might think? I'm so sorry, Gregg. If only you'd let me know. Would you tell me what happened to you? Or is it none of my business?"

Jeffrey sat down on the lounge beside House as Gregg eased himself back down. The cardiologist's sharp eyes did not miss the minimal movement in the leg, or the loss of muscle mass in his friend's right thigh and calf, and he knew instinctively that the injury was serious and permanent.

"Blood clot. Femoral artery," House recited. "They didn't figure it out right away. None of us did … myself included … and when they finally operated, the muscle had died of blood starvation. They went back in and removed the dead tissue, but it was too late. Muscle death, nerve damage. What you see … is what I ended up with."

"My God, Gregg! Still in pain, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Some."

"I'm sorry." The declaration was sincere. And brief. Geiger did not patronize him in any manner. Instead, he asked the question they had both contemplated from time to time for nearly ten years. "Do you still play?" Jeff imitated fingers across a keyboard.

"Yeah. It helps distract me sometimes."

"Still sing? You used to have a pretty decent baritone …"

"Not much. The pipes are a little rusty."

"Is there a restaurant with a lounge anywhere around here?"

"Yeah, there is. The old Holiday Inn downtown."

"Are you up to it?"

"Always … and Jeff?"

"Yeah?"

"I have a friend who's in worse shape than me. I'd like to bring him along. He rides a chair. I snuck out one of the hospital's handicap-access vans to accommodate him. His name's Wilson … a colleague who got wiped out in a head-on collision about eight months ago. He's over at the rehab across town. It's on our way."

Jeff grinned. "So let's go get the man! A friend of yours is a friend of mine. Can you drive?"

"Yeah, the van's automatic and so's the chair lift. The only thing that might have to be lifted in and out manually … would be me!"

Geiger nodded, grinning easily. "That would be _my_ job! Is my car okay in your parking lot?"

"Oh yeah. The parking lots are all lighted … when they're working. We had a power outage today."

"Power outage? In a hospital??"

"Auxiliary power is always trunk-lined to the crucial systems … but not to lights or A/C units in non-critical areas. Like here!"

"Oh … okay … I get it. That must be why I'm sweating my ass off! Shall we go then?"

"Sure. Van's outside."

Gregg bent down to retrieve his guitar case, but Jeffrey Geiger stepped up first. "May I get that?"

House was surprised the way Jeff asked permission for everything: "May I touch you?" "Would you tell me, or is it none of my business?" "Can I get that?" The man was well versed in the appropriate method of dealing with disabled people. Or maybe it was just an inbred courtesy. It wouldn't surprise him. He nodded and straightened slowly. "Yeah. Thanks."

They moved toward the entrance and Geiger matched his gait to Gregg's painful limp. He also ran interference with those who were not watching where they were going when Gregg attempted to go through the door. Not since Wilson's thoughtful habit of protecting him in doorways had Gregg felt so comfortable going in or out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

They picked up the astonished Wilson at the rehab and guided his chair into the van. James could not hide his excitement at being included with Gregg and the esteemed

Dr. Geiger on the excursion he'd heard about, but had not dared to believe he would actually be invited to join.

They arrived at the Inn at seven, and all agreed on Surf'n'Turf for dinner. In the name of common sense, none of them chose to imbibe alcohol with dinner, so they ordered iced tea instead. The three of them talked "doctor-speak" on the topics of disability, pain and rehabilitation, with enough "patient-as-moron" stories to keep them laughing and occupied for hours.

When the Inn's "Lounge Lizard" walked up to the stage close to 9:00 p.m., Gregg and Jeff paid him three hundred dollars to _leave_! The man did not have to be asked twice.

During the next three hours, history repeated itself. With Jeff at one end of the piano bench and Gregg at the other, the old songs and silly clowning around captivated the audience and held them breathless while "Sandler and Young", as the crowd soon began to call them, played and harmonized to dozens of obscure melodies that rocked the ballroom, shook the silverware and guttered the candles on the tables. "Goodnight Irene" had the same effect in Princeton, New Jersey as it had the first time back in Chicago, Illinois.

When they finally finished at midnight, the applause was thunderous, and the tip jar on the piano was brimming.

Gregg sat at the keyboard and continued to noodle around as Jeffrey walked off the stage. When he came back, Jeff was carrying Gregg's guitar, a beautiful polished-amber Gibson.

Gregg turned around on the bench and allowed his gaze to drift back to the table the three of them had occupied. Meeting Wilson's eyes, he began to strum a slow, unfamiliar intro. The melody cascaded from the instrument the way fresh, clear water ripples happily over a rocky streambed.

"I watched my life go down the drain … as though by Fate's design … but I picked myself back up again, and I'm fine … I'm fine."

And the ending: "You give to me the grace I lack … I'm yours and you are mine … and we're fine … just fine …"

The last chord faded away as the room lay in tremulous silence, everyone knowing something unique had just occurred, but did not quite understand what.

Jeffrey Geiger was the first to begin the applause, which swelled quickly around them, building like distant thunder and filling the room with wild celebration and happy laughter. The crowd had gotten much more than they had paid for this evening.

Jeff leaned over to whisper in Gregg's ear. "I understand, my friend. I truly understand, and I'm very honored to have been a part of this. I think you should go over there beside him now … I see he's waiting for you …"

Gregg handed Jeff the Gibson as he levered himself upright and stepped away from the piano bench, limping quickly toward the dark-haired guy in the wheelchair, whose tear-streaked face was half buried atop his folded arms.

And the cheers and the shouts and the whistles were everywhere, and the revelry and the support of the crowd, and the air of general celebration buoyed them up, blessed them beyond anything they had ever experienced.

That night the Princeton Holiday Inn …

_Rocked!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Jeffrey Geiger left for Trenton early the next morning and said his goodbyes to Gregg House at the front entrance to PPTHospital.

"I had the time of my life last night," he said, "and your tribute to Dr. Wilson was beautiful. He's a gentleman … and he truly cares for you. He compliments you in a way that gives both of you a strength that neither of you possesses when you're apart.

"He's obviously a great friend to have at your back, as the song says. Take care of yourself, Gregg. And take care of Jimmy. It's gonna take a lot of work on both your parts if you both want to stay healthy for as long as possible. You still might end up losing your leg, and he, his foot … but you already knew that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. We've both known for a long time, but we can't let it stop us! Thanks for your help … and your company last night. Wilson asked me to tell you: 'Good friends are like good whiskey … and we count you as _damn_ good whiskey!' So long Jeff. I'll be in touch before another ten years is out. I promise."

They grinned at each other, shook hands, and parted.

The big silver Navigator sped away in an echo of delighted masculine laughter, and Gregg House watched it out of sight. He had already put his "Gibson Girl" into the back of the Envoy: the Envoy with the new alarm system and the new driver's side window.

Now it was time to go to work. He lurched to the left and labored up the sidewalk.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When Gregg finished at the hospital that evening and drove over to rehab, he found James Wilson in his room, in his bed, restless and in pain from the day's workout.

His less-injured right leg was mending slowly, but very sensitive to the demands placed upon it to strengthen. When House sat down beside the bed and leaned across to comfort his friend, Wilson was almost in tears and did not want to be touched. House leaned back in the chair, prepared to wait as long as necessary until James could gather his resources and allow his vulnerability to show.

At last the auburn head turned away from the wall and pain-filled dark eyes sought out the comforting presence of a friend. "House?"

"I'm here."

"I know. You're _always_ here. I can't thank you enough, and I …"

"Whoa! Whoa, whoa, big guy! I'm here because I _want_ to be! Because you were always here for me. And because, as you told me one time, that's what friends are for. There were too many times when I didn't hold up my end of the bargain as friendship goes. So I'm here to make it right. And besides … besides …"

…and he could go no further. The words in his heart would not find their way out of his mouth.

"House?"

"Sometimes my tang gets all toungled up in my eye teeth and I can't see what I'm saying."

"What?"

"I said 'never mind!'"

"Yeah, I know what you said … something about poon tang … House, you are a pig!"

House hooted with gritty laughter. "That is _not_ what I said! But it's definitely okay if that's what you _think_ I said!"

"You think I thought you said something other than what you said?"

"No, I said that was not what I said, but I thought you said you thought I said something other than what you think I thought you said." He tried to contain another spurt of laughter, wondering if Wilson would be distracted enough to keep it going.

Wilson was not playing any further. "What?"

House reached to the bed's wheeled table and grabbed Wilson's meds. James was too much in pain to play. He shook two out in his hand, and then poured a small glass of ice water. "Hey … you're hurting … I can tell … so take these."

"How do you know I didn't take some before you got here?"

"Because you're not that 'together' right now. Take 'em!"

Wilson finally complied, set the glass back on the table and leaned back. His right hand went to his leg and rubbed it lightly. "I was on the stationary bike today. Twice. It hurts so badI think I could cry. My God, House, you never told me it would be this bad."

"I couldn't. Why would I? I couldn't burden you with what I was going through. It was private, and I needed to keep it that way. Whoever had any foresight, any clue that this would happen to you seven years later?"

As he spoke, House was pushing himself up from his seat. He hung his cane on the arm of the chair and, supporting himself on the bed rail, hop-stepped around to the other side of the bed. He sat down as close to James as he dared and placed a warm, comforting hand on his friend's painful leg.

"Birds of a feather," he crooned in smart-ass, snarky fashion, "flock together. Can I be in the flock? It'd be a flocking shame if I couldn't … but it's up to you. You're the flocking boss!"

It took a moment for it to happen, but Wilson smiled overtop of his pain; beautiful James, who found cause to smile at the world just for being beneath him, smiled at the ocean because it was wet, and smiled at the sky for being blue.

James, whose chosen profession dealt with death every day and whose tender heart got broken again and again by the loss of people he'd grown to love … just because they were his patients. He'd had to find powerful reasons to laugh this time. And he did find them. He laughed at House now, because House's clumsy attempts at offering true friendship were so often pathetic, but very endearing because he was trying so hard.

Wilson laughed softly, although House's gentle touch on his leg made him wince in pain.

He would not let House see the pain because House had never let him see how bad his own had been.

He reached a hand forward and touched the tangle of House's hair, dug his fingernails in and tousled it around. House's face came up questioning, and Wilson's fingers trailed lightly down over his forehead, his eyebrow, his nose, his stubble, his chin. "Thank you," he finally said, "for taking me along with you and Jeff last night. And for the melody to the song. It was wonderful. Jeff was wonderful. _You_ … were wonderful!"

He could see the bewilderment in House's eyes, the uncertainty and the hesitation.

House turned his attention back to Wilson's leg, using both hands now, atop the heavy cotton of the sweat pants, sensitively and tenderly caressing the knotty, uneven flesh beneath his fingers, keeping it going, even while he sensed Wilson's pain as he did so. "You're welcome," he said at last.

Finally then, James' breathing evened out and House eased off, slowly tracking down the calf to the ankle and slightly swollen foot. "Your swelling has gone down some the past week," he said unnecessarily, "so the therapy is working."

"I sure hope so. Thanks for that. I don't know what you just did … or if you have the magic touch or what … but right now the pain is gone. Could I hire you to do this every night?" He was half joking.

"Yes." No hassle. Just: "yes".

From that night forward, Gregg House showed up at rehab after he was finished at the hospital. Every night. Without fail. And all day Saturdays. And all day Sundays!

They did Wilson's therapy together, House working along with him, and sometimes coming away from it twice as lame, twice as sore as he'd ever been. But he kept his own pain to himself and went on with it because he wanted … needed … Wilson to go on with his!

In his dirty black heart, he thought:

_Norm Lyons, you prick, eat your heart out!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Around the middle of October, Wilson received word that the house on Ridge Road had been sold. He called Julie in Denver and gave her the news. She was delighted for him, and told him that she was working for a firm that put her in charge of the Human Resources Department.

He offered her half the profit from the sale of the house. She told him ten per cent would be fine, and she would turn over the title to the Avalon, which had been in storage at the Toyota dealer's garage for many months. He agreed.

They spoke of generalities for a time and she asked him how he was doing healthwise.

He told her the truth about everything, including the possibility of amputation, and had to calm her down when she cried softly into his ear.

"Julie, I'll be fine. Rehab is getting me back on my feet, and it's only a matter of time before I can go back to work. It's my brain that has to be functioning, you know. My foot doesn't have to do much thinking. I'm soon moving into Gregg's place where I don't have to deal with stairs, and we both think it'll work out very well."

Julie laughed softly, returning to her usual good humor. "See, Jimmy? I told you you'd end up with Gregory House. It's been written in the stars ever since I met you both. God bless you, Jimmy. You're a darling, and you deserve it."

He was a little embarrassed. "I'll be fine, Julie. Thank you. I hope you find what you're looking for … and say 'hello' to Ernie and Kathy."

She told him she would do that … and asked him to do the same with Gregg.

_When Roy sells Trigger!_ He thought to himself darkly.

When they finally rang off, Jim Wilson felt completely free for the first time in his long marriage-history … thirteen years!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Two weeks later, Wilson successfully walked the length of the parallel bars on his quickly healing right leg. His more seriously wounded left leg and the useless left foot were still in braces and bandages.

Gregg House was there the evening Wilson made the leap to ambulatory. Afterward they ordered pizza … one of those decadent things with everything piled on it so high that most of it had fallen off into the box before it ever made it to their mouths.

Haley and Nicole, the meanest PTs in New Jersey, joined them in the celebration, and put their jobs on the line by smuggling in a six-pack of Coors Light. They talked and laughed together over both men's rehab adventures until well after eleven o'clock shift change. Thereafter, both women loaded the empty beer cans into their handbags and left before bed check.

Standing by the doorway, Gregg House bid his friend good night. James looked comfortable, lying there in bed, slightly propped on his pillows, the slow-healing left leg and damaged foot elevated on two other pillows. The right ankle, however, he rotated like a little kid showing off, and wiggled his toes in farewell instead of his fingers. ""Night, House ... thanks for the pizza. I should have paid for it, since I'm the one who sold a house this week! Go home and get off your leg. You've been doing extra duty lately. See you tomorrow?"

"Of course you'll see me tomorrow, Dumbass! Sleep well." When he left, Gregg closed the door quietly behind him. Once in the hallway, he dropped the façade of well-being and leaned wearily against the wall, hissing a breath between his teeth. His leg was searingly painful and he wondered how long he could keep this up.

In the room across the corridor, Jim Wilson let go of the tears he'd been holding back for hours. The pain in his right leg was grinding, as though the knitted bones had come apart and were playing pick-up-sticks beneath his skin.

He'd had to be cute and rotate the ankle, didn't he? Stupid move! He held onto a certain pride for not having exposed his hurt to House, but he lay in the darkness and sobbed. His meds had not taken the edge off, and he knew he must ride it out again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

They allowed him his first crutches two weeks after that, and the following weekend they threw him a farewell party. Everybody loved Jimmy and hated to see him leave. And yet they were all so happy at his continuing recovery.

Gregory House picked him up in his big maroon SUV early in the afternoon and they drove away together.

Wilson's wheelchair rolled easily into Gregg's East Side Drive apartment. His upper body strength had increased by the numbers in his final days of rehab when they'd finally let him use crutches.

Wilson was a graceful man in full health, and remained a graceful man in disability. He possessed a certain flow in his too-thin body that gave him an appearance of competence and fluidity, which belied his condition. The wheelchair was mainly for use in transition. Once home, he was allowed out of it, and he wasted no time getting up on the arm canes. He had flatly refused to use the underarm crutches. Walking around with the excitement of freedom made him feel like an inmate who had just been released from prison.

Gregg House watched him with silent amusement, but did nothing to discourage him, other than telling him to watch out for the damn sharp corners and hip-smacking table tops so he wouldn't have to be the one to pick him up off the floor!

They decided to go out for supper so Wilson could try his hand at driving the Avalon. It would be wonderful to have wheels beneath him again, big wheels with plenty of horsepower beneath him, not wheels that were powered by hand!

When he tried to drive, he found that there was nowhere to comfortably place his damaged foot. The pain it caused overwhelmed him, and he knew he would have to figure something else out, or stop driving permanently. They ended up going to a drive-in in the Envoy and putting their heads together to figure out the Avalon problem.

When they returned home, James bedded down in the room next to Gregg's and they laughed and joked at their combined clumsiness in getting his clothing put away.

Gregg's Mom stopped by the next day to help out, and by that evening everything was accomplished. Francie kissed Jimmy's cheek tenderly and ruffled his fine auburn hair lovingly through her fingers.

"You are still my beautiful boy," she told him in a whisper. "I love you like my own, and I am so happy you're getting well."

Even from across the room, Wilson's beet-red face told Gregg House exactly what she said!

He made sure Wilson saw his triumphant expression!

_Nyah … nyah … nyah!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

182


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"What Goes Around, Comes Around … and Around"

The first week of December was the week James Wilson reported back to work. Gregg dropped him off near the rear entrance where he could ride up to his office on one of the lesser-used elevators, then parked the Envoy close by and walked over to join him.

"Feeling a little weak in the knees?" He asked teasingly.

"Feeling a little weak all over," Wilson admitted. "A person doesn't get to do something like this every day, you know. Thanks for coming along with me."

"Sure. Where else would I be?"

"Well, for starters you _could_ be off your leg … I know it hurts … you could be in your office where it's warmer, sitting in your chair having your usual cup of coffee and pistol-whipping those poor kids into Junior High School copies of your own pissy self …"

"Okay, Big Shot, that's enough out of you! Get on the damn elevator and let's go!"

Wilson snickered a bit, then eased himself over the threshold of the elevator's doorway and turned to lean into the side of the car the same way he'd seen House do it hundreds of times. Only this time he was the one doing the leaning. They both were.

Gregg limped over to his side and stood close to his shoulder as he took both arm canes into his opposite hand. It was funny, really, when one chose to look at it that way: House's damaged right side shoring up Wilson's damaged left side. They looked like two broken tin soldiers, each missing a leg and stacked against one another for a kind of sham stability.

The elevator stopped at Oncology and they both took deep breaths as they gathered themselves to step off. Wilson's right leg was healed now, scarred and knobby, but healed. He was still very protective of it, and would not let House see him without long pants on. He had learned to handle the arm canes with a fluid grace, which belied the truth of his useless left foot. He still could not wear anything heavier than a plain white sock on it, and there was no weight bearing.

The pain when he tried to rotate the ankle, was intimidating. He did not touch the foot down under any circumstances. Perhaps there never would be a way for it to be anything other than useless, and it would have to come off. Although the left leg had stabilized better than any of his doctors would have believed, it was of little use without also having use of the foot. He held it well off the floor when walking, and crossed it over his right ankle when not. The arrangement worked for him, but it broke Gregg's heart.

As for himself, House remained outwardly stoic about the whole thing. He admired his friend in that James had fully accepted that he would probably never walk on that foot again. But he envied Wilson even more. Even after all these years, Gregg had not accepted his own disability, and it galled him constantly. He hated that his leg was so fragile and becoming more so as time went by. He hated the cane and the unending meds and the debilitating pain, which flared up from time to time, turning him into a bitter recluse. He hated the necessity of the monthly evaluations and having to become ever more attentive to his own activities with the fear of a wrong movement or a wrong turn, which could bring him back to a life with crutches or a wheelchair as constant companions.

He looked up from his introspection to see Wilson standing patiently in the hallway across from him, waiting for him to come back to awareness and follow him into the corridor. He pulled one of his apologetic snark-faces, knowing Wilson would understand about the wanderings he did inside his own head. He picked up the pace to the best of his ability and caught up to James, waiting with willing acceptance. Together they moved into the corridor toward the nurses' station, shoulder to shoulder, to the welcoming faces and wide smiles of James' long-time associates.

"I'm baa-ack!"

House heard Wilson joke with his staff as they were suddenly surrounded by all Jim's co-workers and enfolded by gentle, considerate hugs and embraces and the laying on of hands as they welcomed him back into their fold.

House participated in the joy of the occasion just by watching his friend bask in the glow of respect and admiration, suddenly experiencing an emptiness in his gut that spoke of his own inability to allow others to penetrate his hardened shell and make his own heart sing along. It was not in him, and he missed "whatever-it-was" for the first time in his life.

Employees from all parts of the hospital found time to visit Jim Wilson that day, each awaiting his or her turn just to touch him, whisper his name, mist up a little at first glance at his half-a-foot, offer him a gentle hug and a soft word, and in general welcome him joyfully. He accepted their offerings gracefully, but by the end of the day he landed in Cuddy's office surrounded by those closest to him, exhausted and sore and ready to go home and lie down.

Travis took House's car keys and headed out to the back entrance to bring the Envoy around front. But he came back in ten minutes with the news that the big vehicle was not out there. Gregg swore. "Shit! I forgot. I had someone from the GM dealer pick it up so I could have a part installed. Billy, look out in the front lot, willya?"

"Sure, Boss! Hey Foreman … walk along with me. You go one way and I'll go the other. We'll find it!" They left.

Cuddy leaned across her desk and sighed in exasperation. "Dr. House, you are so sad! You can't even keep track of your own automobile!"

House snorted at her. "Ha! But not as sad as the hospital administrator who can't find a blouse that covers up her 'fun bags'!"

There were a few gasps from those who weren't used to the constant sniping and sparring between the two. Cuddy simply glared at House and he snarked back at her.

Wilson shook his head. "Niiice! It's like I've never been gone."

Foreman and Travis bounded through the door jangling House's keys. "We found it," Foreman announced. "We parked it at the front door with the heater on. Guess the dealer had the other set of keys."

Travis came around the couch and assisted Wilson to stand. He did not do the same with House while anyone was around, so he held his breath while Gregg struggled to his feet alone. Six of them walked the two men to the front door together.

House went to the SUV and opened the passenger door. He pressed a switch that had been installed near the edge of the front door frame. A small electric motor whirred and an aluminum platform disengaged from beneath the car's undercarriage and settled to the pavement. House turned to Wilson and bowed from the waist. "Your chariot awaits, suh!" He said in his best British accent.

Wilson grinned. He looked like a little boy with his first tricycle. "House, you are a cockeyed wonder!" He maneuvered across the intervening space and eased carefully onto the platform. House pushed another switch and the platform raised him to within six inches of the passenger seat. After he had situated himself, the motor whirred again and the platform once more disappeared below the undercarriage.

"Gotta go!" House announced. He walked with exaggerated dignity to his own side of the SUV and operated his own lift. They both waved as the big car pulled away from the building. Cuddy, Cameron and Chase waved back, but Foreman and Travis had already turned to head back inside out of the cold.

"Think they got it together yet?" Foreman asked Travis.

"I have no clue," Travis replied. "Probably not. But you'll know it when they do!"

Foreman laughed stiffly. Shrugged. He could think of no further response.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg pulled the Envoy into the underground garage on East Side drive and eased the beast into its proper stall. He turned off the engine and pulled the keys, then looked across to Wilson who sat hunched in the seat opposite him. "You're awfully quiet," he observed. "What's wrong? Anything I can do to help?"

Wilson's eyes narrowed in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the question. "I've never heard you ask that of anyone before. Nothing's wrong, really. I'm just tired and a little achy. Could we order a pizza and drink a beer and just … sit down?"

"I think I could go for something like that, House answered. "Are you feeling well enough to walk to the elevator?"

"I can get there. What about you?"

House's smile was fleeting, dashing across his face and gone. "We've got to stop asking each other all these stupid questions, you know. They take up too much time, and the one who asks the question usually knows the answer already. Okay? If I'm in pain, I'll tell you. And if you're hurting, you let me know. Easier that way, and we won't get bogged down with all kinds of 'cripple' crap."

"I can agree to that, I suppose, except for one thing."

"What?"

"You'll never tell me. You'll hide behind your pissy-face, or you'll get up and pace, or you'll pound the piano until it jumps off the floor … but you'll never tell me when you're in pain. And you know what?" Wilson surged on without letting his friend frame an answer. "You're in pain now, and you had no Goddamn intention of telling me. Am I right?"

The silence that reverberated from the other side of the car was damning, and for once, Gregory House had no answer. Finally: "I'm sorry. You're right. I need to get upstairs and take my meds. I left the other vial in my desk when we all went down to Cuddy's office. I need them, but I need to know if you're all right a lot more …"

"Gregg … let's stop talking and start moving. I'm …" Jim smiled to himself and rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. Or I will be."

Gregg turned the key to auxiliary and they used the platforms to disembark.

They sat on the couch together and scarfed pizza and guzzled Coors Light and watched NFL playoffs. They were tired. They were in pain. But neither one was willing to throw in the towel before the other. Gregg leaned against the arm of the couch with his bad leg elevated on a bed pillow. Wilson sat at the other end in pajamas, cradling his half-foot between the warmth of both hands. He glanced across and saw Gregg wince and draw a hiss of breath between his teeth. "Bad, huh?"

"Yeah …"

"Take your pants off!"

"What?"

"You heard me. Go in on your bed and take your pants off. I'll be there in a minute.

Go on! Go!"

Gregg House stared in confusion, receiving mixed signals, but he got up from the couch slowly and retreated to his bedroom. Sat down on the edge of the bed, put the cane down and began to remove his jeans. Presently the clump of Wilson's crutches moved across the floor toward him. The mattress compressed at his side and the crutches clattered to the floor as the younger man's weight settled very close to him.

Wilson did not ask permission, did not say a word, but his warm, exquisitely gentle hands centered tenderly on the surgical scar disfiguring Gregg's right thigh. He began in a circular pattern, feather light and filled with a delicate sweetness that pulled out the center of pain and drew it gradually away, causing House to moan with the release of the hurt and relief from the throb which had been beating him down for hours. His breathing evened out while Jim continued to stroke the pain from him with his smooth and caring fingers, his soft, supple, compassionate doctor's hands.

When Wilson finally withdrew and settled back at the center of the bed, Gregg's hand reached out to touch his arm. "Thank you. Your hands are …"

"I know."

House could hear the smile in his words and the love in his voice. There was something he wanted to say at that moment; something important, but it escaped him, even as the pain escaped his wounded leg. He felt himself relaxing. Floating. And sometime during the night he awoke for a moment, becoming aware of Wilson's warm body curled protectively around him, and it occurred to him to protest somehow, to tell this wonderous creature beside him that it was he who was supposed to be the protector, the guardian, the centurion at the gatehouse. But he forgot for awhile, and then knew it was okay. Later he woke again, and suddenly he knew what he needed to say to this beloved man.

Seven thoughtful words:

"I am yours and you are mine …"

When House finally pulled himself away from the most delicious sleep he'd had in weeks, Wilson was gone and the shower was already running. He looked around. Had last night been a dream?

He shook the cobwebs from his head and sat up. His leg gnawed at him with a dull ache, but the pounding from the night before was gone. He grasped his cane and pushed himself up from the bed. He was still wearing the same tee shirt and underwear from yesterday, so it hadn't been a dream.''

He tapped the cane on the bathroom door and shouted over the thunder of the water on the shower walls. "Hey! Wilson!"

"Hey! What?"

"Can I come in? I gotta go!"

"Well yeah … hell, it's your bathroom!"

House crossed to the toilet and raised the lid, took a long satisfying piss and lowered it again. He removed his underwear and the tee shirt and dropped them on the floor. The water stopped and the shower curtain flew back as Wilson moved it with the tip of a crutch. They both gasped. Wilson had obviously assumed House had left again.

Suddenly, and for the first time, Gregg was face to face with the devastation that had been wreaked on his best friend's body by the traffic accident.

Angry red scars bisected both legs from hip to ankle. Suture scars that looked like miniature railroad tracks left tiny dents in the skin alongside, and there must be hundreds of them transversing and crisscrossing the others, adding to the maze of traumatic injuries the man had suffered. The calf of his left leg was bright pink and puckered from still-healing burns where the engine block had pinned him inside the vehicle.

Both knees were lopsided and misshapen, the left one looking more triangulated than round, and the ankle was bent at a slightly unnatural angle. The left foot was off-putting, and Gregg's eyes clenched at the sight before he could stop himself.

"Oh God … oh God … oh God … "

He was choking up, his heart breaking for the man who stood soaking wet before him, holding the poor misshapen thing off the floor. Jim's foot more resembled a mass of sutures on top of sutures than an extremity of flesh and blood. He had only three toes left; the fourth and fifth ones were gone. The ball of his foot was rounded crookedly, the way a potato is rounded, its arch pinched and drawn, as though he were posing for a ballet photograph.

There was only half a heel left. The other half had been severed clean, and what remained, spoke to Gregg of the head of a hatchet. He looked up, eyes awash, and met Wilson's anguished face.

"Oh House …" he began, "I knew you were bound to see this … but I hoped it wouldn't be until it had a chance to heal a little more." Jim's expression was a study in misery, not for himself, but for his friend. He came forward with a strangled cry and they drew together in desperate embrace. Two walking wounded. Two dear friends brought closer together by unkind fate and mutual agony.

They stood together in each other's arms until the emotion finally subsided and they could both take a deep breath without the diminishing sobs catching in their throats. They drew apart then, riding the wave of understanding and deep respect.

And more.

Neither of them remembered how it started, or by whom; just that at last, it did.

Softly, their lips found each other and brushed together, searching. Their minds exploded with a newness they both realized had been there all along, simply waiting.

Their bodies awakened, sensitized by the discovery of a very old love brought to new awareness. Together they found a sense of wonder and irony that they should have … _for God's sake!_ … seen coming!

Apart from one another they were hurt, injured, wounded and broken. But together they were strong, powerful, sturdy and tough.

"I think I love you."

"I think you do too."

"Do you mind?"

"Oh no … it'll give us something to do on cold winter nights."

"Jackass!"

"Look out, Wilson … I think my tail is beginning to grow …"

"Well har de har har!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Gregg took his shower quickly and they sat on the bed together looking at one another with something akin to awe. They had to work this out slowly, ease into it and find an arrangement that worked.

Making love would be difficult at first. There could be no banging together of frenzied bodies. Bad idea. Still, there was no hurry. They had the rest of their lives to figure it out.

As they sat and looked at one another through mists of promise, Gregg motioned Jim to allow him to touch the foot.

Slowly Wilson conceded.

As James had caressed his bad leg the night before, so did House now caress Wilson's disfigured foot. He explored its altered contours with the tips of his fingers, cradled the damaged heel tenderly within the palms of his hands, and stroked the tortured skin lovingly.

With tear-filled eyes he traced the livid scars across the instep as a blind man reads Braille. He lifted his opposite hand and cocooned the maimed, surgery-mutilated foot within his loving warmth. He then placed the useless foot gently back on the surface of the bed. "You were always here for me," he said softly. "And I will always be here for you."

Wilson smiled. "I know …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

House walked into his office to find the Ducklings already in line in the room next door. Bright eyed, eager little Ducklings. He removed his backpack from his shoulder, took off his jacket and hung it neatly on the back of his chair. He nodded to them as a group and even gave them a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Their eyes widened as they watched his approach.

He picked up his well-used red coffee cup and limped toward the coffee maker, nodding to them all as he passed in front of them. "Good morning, people ..." Their mouths dropped open as well. "Anything interesting on the docket today?"

Lisa Cuddy pulled open the door to House's office, strode across to the inner room, pulled the door open there as well, and walked in. The Ducklings stood silent, still in line, very subdued. "Dr. House, I need you to make sure all the supplies are restocked in the clinic med closets today. Can you take care of it for me?"

House leaned closer to her cleavage and took an obvious sniff. "You smell yummy today, Dr. Cuddy," he said, wiggling his expressive eyebrows.

Cuddy frowned.

_What?_

"Of course I always did appreciate the smell of a dairy barn in the winter …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Up in Oncology, James Wilson donned his white lab coat, settled himself carefully into a jazzy red and silver sports wheelchair and got ready to start rounds.

He hummed the Theme Song, a satisfied smile parting his lips. It was great to be back in the saddle.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

From a position of concealment, Eric Foreman watched Dr. House take one of his gossip-seeking swings around the hospital. As usual, his boss's sartorial accouterments were thrown together like a basket of dirty laundry, and the scruff on his face was at least two days old. But his hair was actually combed and his step was energetic. The off-stride rhythm of his unusual halting gait seemed to lend his movements a certain lopsided grace unique to someone with his particular disability:

_Whop-step, whop-step, whop-step …_

Foreman watched him, puzzled. What was he not seeing here??

He went about his business and forgot House for a time.

At noon, Foreman and Travis walked into the cafeteria at the same time. They were quickly becoming friends. They chose their food, paid for it and went to a table together. "You see 'Mister Bossman' this morning?" Travis asked with a grin.

Foreman nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. "Yeah. Why?"

"He seem a little … 'different' … to you?"

"Now that you mention it, maybe a little bit less of an asshole."

"That mean anything to you?" Travis's smile was ear-to-ear, cornrows bouncing.

Foreman's eyes widened. "Oh … Good God! That's _it!"_

Bill Travis nodded. "Man, I think their ship done come _in! _ Hoo Yaw!"

Foreman's grin was as wide as his friend's. "Great! I hope so. If it did, it's gonna take a whole lot of crap off of us Ducks!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

190


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

"Little Shining Moments"

"Drop me off at the Toyota Dealer, will you?" Wilson asked conversationally as he and House rode toward home in the big Envoy. It was Friday night and they had the whole weekend to rest from a strenuous week.

"Why?" Gregg wanted to know. "What's there?"

"The Avalon is there. Remember? I had some work done on it. The foot thing we talked about."

"Ahh … hand controls, right?"

"Well, sort of. But my right leg's okay now, so I can use the foot controls. Although I did have a hand gas-and-brake installed in case you need to drive it."

"Considerate of you to notice I needed those."

"Ah, House, don't be a dork! I know your leg isn't stable. You need the convenience, and once in awhile we do need two cars. I just had them make me a slight alteration so I can drive the car without it hurting my foot. No big thing." Wilson shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I started a trend for handicapped drivers with a maimed left foot!" He smiled and reached across to touch index and middle fingers lightly to House's right cheek.

House leaned into the gesture and smiled slightly. "Okay," he said, "I give up. What did they do to it?"

"Cut a hole in the floor. I know I told you …"

"Whaat?"

"Yeah. Welded a metal dish to the undercarriage, made a nest for my foot and carpeted the inside of it. I can put a cushion in there and rest my foot in it when I drive. No pressure, no pain, no problem."

House turned onto the Toyota dealer's large lot and pulled around to the garage where the baby blue Avalon was parked conveniently beside the office. Wilson gathered his arm canes, opened the door and prepared to slide out. "You don't have to get out, Gregg. Get on home and lie down. I'll meet you there as soon as I pay the bill." His concern radiated from his eyes.

Gregg melted. He felt like shit, and Wilson was in his "mother hen" mode again. "Okay," he said, too tired to argue. "You're sure you can drive okay without hurting yourself?"

"I know I can. They even measured me for it. So get going and I'll see you shortly." He grasped his canes and slid gracefully down to the pavement on his right foot. He closed the door and waved a cane as the Envoy pulled back onto the street.

House envied him. Jimmy's right leg had strengthened to normal and beyond. He no longer used the platform to get out of the Envoy, only to get in, and Gregg could not do that. He'd watched the grace with which his partner had adapted to use of the arm canes, and now walked with not much more of a limp than he had when he was able-bodied. His biggest problem lately seemed to be with intermittent bouts of pressure and swelling. He wore a soft grey "boot" on the damaged foot, and had learned to maintain a constant vigilance to protect it from bumps, which might cause him hours of needless pain.

House pulled the big SUV into its parking space in the underground garage of the large apartment on East Side Drive, gathered his jacket, briefcase and constant companion, the stout black cane. He opened the door and activated the lift. It thumped into place and he stepped out, wincing as his leg announced it did not want to move.

The injured muscles had gone into severe spasm earlier today while he was examining a four-year-old boy in the clinic, and his gasp of pain and the subsequent tremors had frightened the child into near-hysterics. Two of the other doctors on duty had had to drag him out of there with his arms around their shoulders as he hopped between them crazily, over to Cuddy's office where he'd collapsed in breathless misery. The child's mother and two other patients had been startled out of their wits, but when the situation was explained to them, they understood far better than House had expected.

Cuddy, bless her, stayed close to his side until the storm finally abated, one hand on his back, rubbing softly up and down, the other on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to let him know someone was there. It had been a bad one, one of the worst he'd experienced in a long time. By the time Wilson got there, House was pale, sweaty and exhausted.

And yet he refused to go home. He saw the sparks of anger in James' dark eyes at his stubbornness, but he decided if he began giving in to it at this late date, there would be no end to where it might finally lead him. He hibernated in his office, allowing no one near him except Wilson, until finally Billy Travis arrived with his cane that he'd dropped back in the clinic, and stayed to calm them both.

House leaned back in the yellow lounge chair in his office with the earphones on, zoning out to _Moonlight Sonata_, sawing back and forth across his shoulder with the shaft of the cane His leg would not straighten, and he kept it hitched halfway up the middle of the footstool. He took a pair of Vicodin and waited for them to take effect.

By 5:00 p.m. he felt a little stronger, the color came back to his face and he assured everyone he would be able to drive home.

Riding up to the apartment in the elevator, Gregg leaned his back into the wall and closed his eyes against the constant buzz in his thigh. Walking down the hallway to the apartment, his leg still did not want to straighten, and he hobbled along on the toes of the right foot. Once inside, he dropped everything in a pile and went straight to the shower. The hot water helped, but not enough. He pulled on a sweat suit and hit the couch with a heating pad tucked around the surgical site.

Wilson arrived five minutes later and clumped over to the couch. "How are you?"

"It hurts … and I'm so fucking sick of it!" He looked up into the sorrowful brown eyes and could not go on for a moment.

James lowered himself to the side of the couch and reached for his partner's right hand. He bent down and kissed the strong knuckles, turned it over and kissed the palm. He manipulated the hardened skin along the heel of Gregg's hand where calluses had formed from putting his weight on his hand and arm and shoulder, rather than on his leg.

House reached up into the baby fine auburn hair, brushing at the stubborn lock, which insisted on falling over Wilson's smooth forehead. He followed the contours of the thick eyebrows that curved over the brown, deep pools that looked tenderly back at him. "I'm blessed," he finally said. "I'm blessed with an embarrassment of riches that I don't deserve and don't know how to appreciate." Gently, he exerted pressure on the back of Wilson's neck, coaxing his head downward until their lips touched in the most delicate of kisses.

Jimmy smiled as they released each other, shaking his head in wonderment. "I've loved you my whole life," he said. "From the time I was ten years old. I didn't know what it was, and it took three failed marriages and almost getting us both killed to spell it out for me. When you hurt, I hurt. I can't define it any better than that. I haven't the words to tell you how I feel."

"I know," Gregg said, still with his fingers on Wilson's face, caressing his eyes, brushing his fingertips over the long eyelashes, following the contours of the high cheek bones all the way to the corners of his mouth, outlining the full lips, still moist from the kiss. "When I touch you like this, I almost feel guilty for robbing you of someone who can give you everything you deserve; not some crippled old fool like me …"

"Gregg." His given name was whispered to him, but it drew his attention with more insistence than a shout.

"Hmmmm?"

"In case you've been living under a rock for the past year, I believe we both fit your category of 'crippled old fool'. I get just as frustrated as you do about the loss of mobility and the wasted hours spent in pain. I feel useless around here. I can cook and I can do laundry, but I can't carry anything. I can't run the vacuum cleaner or mop the kitchen floor. I can't lift you anymore when your leg won't let you move. I can't make the beds or pick up dirty laundry. I can iron our shirts, but I have to do it sitting down."

"I don't iron my shirts!"

"Yeah, I know." The sarcasm brought smiles to both their lips.

"You can do your job, Wilson, and we do engage a domestic service to do the heavy stuff. You have the respect of everyone at the hospital. You attract people the way a magnet attracts thumbtacks. What you can't do here, you make up for when you're over there. When you're at work, you're not a cripple. You're a doctor."

"Maybe, but you're the one they look for when things get dicey! Lisa Cuddy says you're the best doctor in the hospital, and Norm may not be your best buddy, but he does his best to keep you healthy. The Ducklings are scared to death of you, but they respect you because you're a genius. Billy Travis would give you the shirt off his back, and I'm sure you know it. He doesn't try to hide it.

"And then there's me."

An eyebrow rose. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, the other crippled old fool who loves you …"

House raised an eyebrow and struggled to gather himself and sit up. Wilson moved over to accommodate him. "Is your leg any better?"

"Yeah," House told him. "I'll be okay. What about you?"

Wilson laughed softly. "I'm pretty good right now. You haven't kicked me in the foot today yet."

"Do you think we'll make it, Jimmy? Do you think this thing we have will last? Or do you think it will tank and fuck us both up for the rest of our lives?"

Wilson smiled and helped House to sit up at the edge of the couch. "Oh yeah … if I do the cooking and ironing and you do the mopping and vacuuming, I don't see why we can't live happily ever after. 'I am yours and you are mine …'"

"Yeah. We are fine, aren't we? How about if we both hobble on out to the kitchen and make supper. Spaghetti sound good to you? I think we can handle it between the two of us …"

"Yeah, if we can manage not to fall over each other and not drop our canes and our crutches, we can probably plan on eating about ten o'clock tonight. Remember what Francie used to say: 'Every boy should have pasta at least once a week.' Wise woman, your Mom."

"Yeah, I know. But that's just because she happens to think you're cute!"

"Well, I am! Two thousand female patients and Francie can't be wrong! Let's do it! I'm hungry. You slice and I'll dice!"

"Wilson, you're very close to 'Jackass-hood' yourself … you know that?"

"No comment!"

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"When the dishes are done and the kitchen is cleaned up," House muttered silkily under his breath, "I'm going to haul your ass into the bedroom and take crazy advantage of you!"

"Oh yeah? Well then … I guess we won't need dessert … but it _will_ keep us busy on these …long winter nights …"

House laughed, deep and resonant. "It ain't winter."

"Really? Didn't notice."

- THE END -

A/N To those of you who followed this story all the way to its conclusion:

Your reviews have blessed me beyond all expectation, and there are not enough words in my vocabulary to tell all of you "thanks for the ride … it has been exhilarating!" (Something like that …)

I hope that we will meet again … and I promise to bring Billy Travis along with me!

Betsy Fisher

Betz88

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